


Hearth

by Ladycat



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Control Issues, M/M, Season/Series 06, Unfinished and Discontinued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-31
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:27:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is wrong with Spike, and Xander is determined to fix it. Crossover with Angel,the Series. Set at the end of season's six and three respectively, but AU, in that both the real seasons are being ignored. There was no Spike-Buffy sex fest, nor was Connor born.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Soft and wet, sometimes with gentle little kitten-licks, sometimes hard and rough.  Both were good.  Xander stretched, pushing his shoulders up against the pillow and stretching his arms out as far as he could.  Relaxing, he snagged the papers  _someone_  had placed up in the corner of the bed, sighing as he scanned down half the page.  There it was, part three, f.  That’s where he’d fallen asleep.

The wet suction was removed and he heard squishy noises as he turned on the light and tried to get his head back into it the complex language before him.  Writing and proofing contracts was  _not_  his forte.

He gasped as something slippery and  _so_  very tight encased him, sliding down his length to nestle soft skin against his own crinkly curls.  A pause and then it slid back up, and down, and up. . .   The rhythm was moderately fast, and Xander felt his blood boiling.

“This isn’t help me concentrate, you know.”

There was no sound, but the rhythm changed to something much slower and gentler.  He felt legs near his hips and thighs shift, settling down and allowing more leverage and a deeper angle.  Strong muscles clamped down, making the already torturous ride even worse.

Or was that better?

Xander began to gasp, clutching the papers hard enough that he was sure they were going to be a crinkled mess whenever he was finally done.  Good thing this was a copy.  “That. . . isn’t helping. . . either, oh  _gods!”_   His hips bucked up into that yielding flesh, grabbing at the sheets to give himself leverage.  “Faster!” he gasped out, trying to show with is own body the pace he needed.

Immediately, the bed began quake as its occupants jerked and bounced to a punishing speed.  “Better,” he managed just before he arched his back so that his weight rested on his heels and his head, a scream choking in his throat as he released.

Moaning, he sank back into the bed, unable to fight the post-coital lassitude.  Snuggling down deeper, he tried to figure out what the black beetle-like letters meant on the wrinkled papers.  It wasn’t working, but it was fun trying.  Like finding shapes in clouds.

Once his breathing calmed, that snug tightness was slowly removed.  The wetness returned, soft licks cleaning up any evidence of the past few minutes.  Once shiny and clean, a hand pulled up his silk black boxers, tucking him back in.  Then there were the sounds of skin on cotton and the bed dipped and shook.

Xander let the papers drop when his door was firmly shut.  He could hear the sounds of someone puttering around in the kitchen, and he knew within the forty five minutes it would take him to get up and get dressed, he’d find coffee and breakfast waiting.

It was nice.  He’d never had someone so  _focused_  on whatever he wanted.  His pleasure always came first, whether that was establishing a morning blow-job, or learning how to cook the meals he liked best, or doing the dishes and the laundry, things Xander absolutely hated to do.  It was occasionally smothering, but once Xander had explained that—meaning he screamed and ranted for an hour—changes had been made.  Now it really was only  _occasionally_  smothering, and usually only when one of them needed it.

Shaking off his sleepiness, Xander finished reading the page and even got a second one in, scowling at the stupidity before him.  Contracts were  _nightmares_ , no matter how many times he had to go over the damned things.  Written by fyarl demons on acid—a particularly  _stupid_  fyarl, which was saying a lot given that particular species.

Showered and dressed, he wandered over to the kitchen.  Eggs, today, with his toast lightly buttered and his coffee creamed and sugared the way he liked.  He reached over absently to kiss the cook—that’s what it said to do on the apron—and began eating.  “This is delicious,” he complimented, enjoying the spicy edge the basil and cilantro made.  Eating was always a delight in his apartment; he never knew what he’d be getting next.

“I’ve got only half a day today—we’re still waiting for the rest of that shipment, so meet you over by the magic box?”  He waited for the expected nod, washing the dishes himself that morning.  He ignored the small exclamation, as well as the tug on his sleeve.  “Leave it, okay?  I don’t mind doing it.  I want to spoil you, for a change.”

It wouldn’t be that simple, he could tell by the carefully neutral expression on his lover’s face.  He knew, by now, that it was hiding shocked hurt, and the deep-seated belief that Xander had to be upset about something.

Which was true.

Not for the reasons he knew his lover would immediately begin cataloguing, but Xander  _was_  upset.  He gave his lover another kiss, feeling one of the reasons as he pressed his body against the familiar one before him.  It wasn’t  _bad_ , not really. . . but it was indicative of the problem.

And Xander had no idea what to do about it.

* * *

It dwelled on his mind the whole day at work, even when he met with the clients and their lawyers to go over the contract.  Xander’s bosses were decent people, who ran a professional operation.  If they promised completion on a certain date, then it would be completed on a certain date.  The flip side was, they had to be very careful about what their promises  _were_ , so not to get into trouble.

“Hey, Alex!”  Xander paused and allowed Enrique, one of his few work friends, to catch up with him. “Dig the suit.  Meeting with the Hoffman’s again?”

He grimaced ostentatiously.  Enrique loved a good show.  “I will  _never_  understand people sometimes!  They want their building up by April.  Okay, fine, but it’s not possible!  Even if we haul ass and work a lot of overtime—which will cost them—it’s almost winter.  Yes, we’re in California so we don’t exactly have lots of snow and wind, but it’s  _always_  slower in winter!  And then they say that they have two other companies who are promising to get it done by April, except  _I_  know they won’t be able to—and it won’t be as good as ours will be.”

Enrique laughed, clapping Xander on the back—after surreptitiously wiping his hands to make sure they were clean.  “Alex, man, don’t worry about.  We’ll either get the job, or they’ll get screwed.  No big deal.”

True, but only because they had jobs lined up for the next few years, so they didn’t need to hunt them down like some companies did.  “Yeah, but I like the Hoffman’s.  I want to cut them a break.”

“Too soft-hearted, man.  So how’s home?  You’ve got time off soon, right?”

“Yeah, next week.”  Xander studiously did  _not_  mention how home was going.  He wasn’t sure he could explain it, anyway.  It wasn’t that it was bad—far from it.  It just wasn’t. . .  right.  “Four long weeks with my honey and no interruptions.”  He gave Enrique a glare as they headed towards Xander’s trailer-office.  “So do  _not_  have emergencies here, okay?  I don’t care if the whole thing comes crashing down.  Call Richard!”

Enrique laughed again, leaning against the doorframe while Xander gathered up his belongings.  “You take care, okay?  You’re a good boss.  Must be cause you’re so young!”

Xander laughed along with his friend.  Enrique was forty five, and had been in the construction business longer than Xander had been alive.  He had been the one to suggest to Xander’s bosses that they might try the boy out in foreman position, and had helped keep the peace when several older, more experienced employees objected to having a twenty year old tell them what to do.

Saws whined, cutting off any attempts at conversation and Enrique nodded before heading off.  Xander waved, throwing on his coat and turning off the lights.  Heading towards the main office, he found Cindy in the coffee room.

“Hey, Kid,” she greeted cheerfully.  “Everything all squared away?”  At his nod, she headed over to her desk, picking up a slip of paper.  “Your bonus, and don’t spend it all in one place.  Get a piece of candy with that soda pop.”

He grinned at her, bowing over the slip.  “And forget about your bonbons?  Never!”

The executive secretary—aka, the boss of everyone in the entire company—grinned a little wider.  “I don’t need bonbons,” she said sternly, gesturing to her plump physique.  “That sweety of yours, however, definitely needs fattening up.  Get some good chocolate!  And you will  _definitely_  go to the beach!”

Xander grinned. “Riiiight, so I can deal with the moaning, and the whining, and the scratching, and the glares when we both burn.  Thanks, Cindy, but I like being able to sleep at night.”  Cindy laughed and gave him a peck on the cheek. He hugged her back, calling over to Richard that he was leaving.  A muffled goodbye was his only response, but that was expected.  Richard was doing the quarterly taxes, which meant he saw the coffee and the food Cindy dropped in front of him, nothing else.

Whistling cheerfully, he made his way off the site and over to the parking lot.  His beautiful baby—sleek, black, and so new it still had that new car smell—the convertible chirped at him when he thumbed the unlock button on his key-chain.  It was totally inappropriate and probably more expensive than he could really afford, but he’d fallen in love at first sight, and no one had been able to talk him out of buying it.

The engine purred to life, making Xander grin.  There had been quite a bit of purring when Xander had first brought his baby home for christening.  And squealing and moaning and laughing hysterically—although the last had been when he showed up at the Magic Box the first time, and Buffy had accused him straight-faced of stealing it.

Humming along with the music, he tried hard not to let go of his good mood.  Because he  _wasn’t_  unhappy at home, he wasn’t.  He was worried and concerned, but  _definitely_  not angry or upset.  At least, not for himself.

“Hello, ladies!” he called cheerfully as the bell rang above his head.  Anya gave him peck on the cheek before helping a customer that followed on Xander’s heels.  Tara and Willow waved from the table where they were studying.  Homework, it looked like, and not magic, for once.  Which was good.

“Hey, Xander.  How was work today?”

“Good, good.”  He hopped up onto the counter, grinning down on his women.  Well, not all of them, but he could hear the thump coming from the back room and knew the other two would be in soon.

“Well?”  Willow folded her arms and glared up at him, doing a decent job of suppressing the grin that was lurking behind her eyes.

Tara laughed, the deep, mellow sound melting the stern expression instantly.  “You aren’t his mother, Willow.  He’ll tell us when he wants to.”  Then she gave him that sideways grin that he’d fallen in love with, making him melt as quickly as Willow had.  They’d worked so hard to get her comfortable among them.  “Won’t you, Xander?”

“Won’t Xander what?”  Buffy threw herself onto the love seat in the corner, grinning and sweaty.  A very sore looking Dawn and a puffing Giles trailed her, immediately looking for ice and ace-bandages.  Xander jumped up to help, laughing at Dawn’s pathetic ‘whimpers’.  “Oh, quit complaining, you big baby.  You asked for training to help me, and I  _was_  holding back!”

Giles mopped his face, raising an eyebrow over the towel.  “That, my dear Buffy, was not holding back.  Even Spike had trouble!”

Moving back to the counter, Xander found a can of soda and a candy bar waiting for him, yet no evidence of the one who had left it.  Stifling his grumbles, he forced himself to look blithesome.

 _“He’s_  the biggest baby of the three of you.  Who knew a vampire could be so sensitive?  I really didn’t hit him that hard!”  There was a note of concern in the Slayer’s flippant voice, her eyes darting around the room sheepishly.  Despite the easy relationship vampire and vampire slayer now shared, there were still occasional problems—although Buffy was really trying to curb her temper.

“Where is Spike?” Willow added when the vampire didn’t immediately appear.  He usually was right there beside Buffy, verbally sparring with her to the other’s amusement.  “Buffy, you didn’t hurt him did you?”

Buffy looked even more sheepish, and just a touch guilty.  “I may have kinda, um. . . kneed him.”

“Buffy!”  The censure in Tara’s voice made the entire room start in surprise.  She was talking more, but she was still hesitant about showing strong emotions.  “You know better than to hurt him like that.  He probably won’t come out the rest of the day, now.”

“No, I see him.”  Dawn leaned up against the wall, holding an ice pack to her upper thigh.  “He’s cleaning up the training room.  I don’t even think he’s listening to us.  Usually he’s grinning when we talk about him.”

“Especially if Buffy gets in trouble,” Tara added.

“Hey!  I didn’t  _mean_  to, he just. . . we were just. . . oh, fiddlesticks.  I should probably go apologize.  It was just the perfect move, and when he dropped like I’d almost  _staked_  him. . .”

Dawn waved her off, grabbing her books from the table.  “Later.  I need help on this essay first, okay?”

“Essay?  On what?”  Willow and Buffy both perked up, although the former only wanted to help.

“Victorian England,” Dawn replied with a cheeky grin.  Waving goodbye, she disappeared into the training room—shutting the door behind her.

“So, is anyone else worried about Spike?”  Willow slumped down in her seat, absently chewing on her pen, watching the door for some sign that she was being listened to.  “It was okay for a while, but it’s almost like he’s been. . . disappearing.”

Anya nodded.  “I found him doing inventory downstairs, yesterday.  This was good and helpful, but I hadn’t asked him to do it.  And when I went to talk to him about, he just handed me the paper and left.”

“Not. . . exactly what I meant, but yeah.  Like he’s so focused on doing what he can for us, that he’s stopped. . .”

“Being a person?”  Buffy folded her arms across her chest, delicate brows wrinkled in concern.  Which was a  _very_  good sign from the Slayer—the last of the scoobies to fully accept Spike into the group.  “Yeah, I’ve noticed it.  When I hit him—and I  _didn’t_  mean to—he went down hard, but he didn’t say anything when he got up.  It’s why Dawn and you, Giles, didn’t really see it.  He just took it.  When was the last time Spike took  _pain_  without bitching about it?”

“Or at least becoming more focused on ending it, yes, I see your point.”  Giles moved behind the counter, leaning forward.  “I’ve been speaking Wesley lately.  Yes, Wesley your former Watcher.  He apparently has improved greatly, such that Angel Investigations is now run by  _him_ , and not Angel.”

“I bet Angel took that  _so_  well,” was Buffy’s wry comment, but she silenced herself when Giles glared.

“Yes, well, there were several extraordinary circumstances.  Not, I realize, that unusual with our line of work, but still.  My point is that I’ve mentioned Spike’s recent behavior to Wesley, who has mentioned it to Angel.  Angel, it seems, has expressed an interest in Spike and would like to see him.”

“See him?  Don’t they hate each other?”

Giles gave Willow a funny look.  “I don’t think they started out hating each other.  And I believe Angel feels a kind of kinship to Spike, now.  He doesn’t have a soul, but if Spike wanted, this chip could be his conscience—and Angel knows first hand the kind of problems that can arise with that.  He’s offered to come up here, several times.”

“You want him to go there, instead.”

“Yes, Xander, I do.  I think we—all of us here—are part of his problem.  He doesn’t know how to deal with himself, so he’s concentrating on dealing with things he  _does_  know—how to take care of us.  Spar with Buffy, help out at the store, help with the research and take care of Dawn.  These are things he can do, and he’s using them as an excuse to ignore the rest of his life.”

“And Spike would use that routine as a way to fob Deadboy off, if he came here.  Got it.  So.  Good thing I’ve got plenty of vacation time coming up.”

“Xander!  You were going to have a real break!”

He grinned at Willow’s outraged expression.  “Come on, Wills!  What’s more exciting then going to L.A.?  I can go shopping with Cordy, check out all the museums, the movie tours, all the cool stuff.  When that gets boring, I’ll check up on the sister-branch of the Scoobies, make sure everything’s running up to spec.  And Deadboy can try and commune with Deadboy Jr.”

“Then you agree there’s a problem?”

Xander nodded, amusement dying.  “Yeah.  There’s a problem.”

Giles nodded, promising to make the arrangements.  Nothing more was said, since Spike soon came in with a bitterly complaining Dawn.  “But I don’t  _need_  more research!  The stuff you gave me is  _perfect!_ ”

For one instant, it looked like Spike was going to argue with her.  Then he deflated, shrugging and muttered, “It’s your grade, bit.”  That’s it.  No snarky comments about little girls learning on their own two feet, nothing about how he was not something that could be cited with any kind of credibility, nothing even about how the information was probably wrong because he was probably lying to her.  Nothing.

In light of the recent conversation, the lack of a response was glaring.  Xander saw thoughtful expressions and knew they, like he, were trying to place the last time Spike had really acted like  _Spike._   He himself couldn’t come up with anything except ‘after Adam’.  Maybe the others were more successful.  Hopefully.  It would probably help Angel either way.

They had their usual meeting, quietly discussing the latest problems, and then Spike and Buffy went out patrolling again.  It had been fairly quiet recently, but that could mean nothing or everything; Giles had counseled diligence and surprisingly not even Buffy had argued.  Xander privately thought she was still too preoccupied with Spike to care.

Once they were gone, Giles closeted himself in the office while Xander waited.  He wanted this done now.  If the folks in LA were agreeable, he’d leave tomorrow.  Spike would probably argue and whine—although maybe he wouldn’t.  Xander thought back over the last few weeks and came to the unhappy conclusion that he  _wouldn’t_  do all the ‘Spike’ things Xander expected him to.  He’d just. . . look sad, and hurt, and probably not talk for a long time.

“Anya?  Do you have any idea what’s wrong with Spike?”  Willow and Tara had left not long after Buffy, going to sit with Dawn until patrol was finished, so Xander didn’t mind asking the question.  It would have been. . . iffy, in front of his friends.

Anya continued checking money from the register, although her Dance of Capitalist Superiority was must less enthusiastic and ended far quicker than normal.  “No.  Not really.”

“But you have a guess.”  They hadn’t dated for all that time with Xander learning how to read the former demon.  “Can I hear it?”

She gave him a long look, which told him more completely just how serious this was.  Anya was the only person Spike  _really_  couldn’t get along with, because Anya was the only person who would always say the one thing Spike didn’t want said.  So if Anya was worried and hesitant, that meant Spike wouldn’t like it—and it was probably very important.

“I don’t think I can talk about this. . .”

“Ahn, please.  Whatever is going on with Spike, it’s hurting him.  He’s not happy and. . .”

She sighed, closing the drawer and leaning on it.  Her face was sad, and her eyes full of too many years.  “That’s the problem.  He  _is_  happy, in a way.  Remember how happy I was when Giles first hired me?  How I had a place in the world?  Caring for all of us is Spike’s place in the world.”

He nodded, but then he’d known that all along.  “I get that, Ahn, I do.  But he  _isn’t_  happy.  He’s not  _un_ happy, but I think that’s because he’s ignoring the problem, not because he’s content with his life.  Something’s wrong.”

“Yes, but I can’t tell you what it is, Xander.  I wouldn’t know how to explain it.”  Looking far too solemn, she finished her clean up and went to check on Giles.

Xander let her, knowing he wouldn’t get anything more out of her.  Anya had finally learned the art of keeping secrets, and he couldn’t really be upset with her for learning something that had been  _so_  important to both of them.  He just wished he knew what was wrong.

“Good news, Xander!” Giles exclaimed with obvious relief as he entered the shop proper again.  “Angel and Wesley both think it’s a very good idea for you two to come down, and they’ll have everything set up.”

Xander nodded, glancing out to the darkened streets.  “I better pack,” he said absently.  “I want to leave as soon as Spike’s done patrolling.”

“What, tonight?”

“It has to be.”  Standing, Xander gathered his things and moved to the door.  “He can’t have time to think about this.”

“Yes, but surely you can just tell him you’re planning a surprise for your vacation.”

“Oh, I will be—but it still has to be tonight.”

“Well. . . I suppose you know best in this.  Do keep in touch.  And try to enjoy yourself at least some of the time.  You do deserve this break.”

Xander smiled and waved goodbye before hurrying home.  He frantically packed everything he could think of, ransacking the apartment in his haste.  Three bags were packed, the apartment was burglar-proofed, and Xander settled down on the sofa.

He woke to strong hands kneading his shoulders and neck, easing him from his cramped position to a more relaxed one on the sofa.  “Wha—no, stop it!”

Instantly, the hands were removed and he could feel the body behind him take a few steps back.  His stomach twisted.  Turning, he tried to apologize for his abrupt behavior.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—you aren’t going to accept any kind of explanation, are you?”

The comment was met with downcast silence.

Sighing, he got up and began shouldering the bags.  “Come on.  Got a couple of stops to make, and then we’re leaving.”  The knot in his stomach grew tighter when there wasn’t even a casual question about their destination, or abrupt departure.  Just instant obedience, taking the last bag Xander was struggling with and following him down to the car.

He fumed at the reaction, but he had no choice but to use it.

Three stops, and they were on the road.  There were still no questions as to where they were going, why, or if anyone knew.  Xander didn’t bother to offer explanations, instead issuing a curt order to relax and get some sleep.  Obedience was instant once again—he could tell by the breathing patterns.

Pillowing his lover’s head in his lap, Xander stroked the surprisingly soft hair absently as he drove.  “What am I going to do with you, Spike?” he whispered into the wind.  “How am I going to  fix you?”

The wind whistled it’s response, but Xander couldn’t understand it.


	2. Chapter 2

Spike was still sleeping when they pulled up in front of the Hyperion, and Xander was loath to wake him.  The vibrations from the car and Xander’s familiar caress had relaxed the vampire in a way Xander couldn’t remember seeing in a long time.

Letting the car idle, Xander watched as streaks of sunrise painted the sky in pinks and greys.  Spike looked so much younger when sleeping.  Like a boy of only twenty four years, not the man who had lived for over a century.  Not the man who had taken care of  _him_ , not all that long ago.

Sighing, Xander turned off the car.  Spike instantly started awake, pushing himself up and glancing wildly around.  When he realized that it had only been the car, he lost some of the battle-tension—but he didn’t relax.  “Sorry,” he muttered, before hurrying to the trunk to pick up their suitcases.  Xander scowled at the steering wheel—if he went back to help, Spike would just look pathetic at him.

“Xan?”  Spike hovered by the front door, looking anxious.  “Sunrise.”  That was it.  Xander could almost hear the comments Spike  _should_  have been saying, but instead all he’d really heard was a tactful—almost obsequious—reminder.

“Yeah.  Hopefully they’ve got our rooms set up.”

He wondered if Spike knew where they were, yet.  The directions had been easy to follow and cogent—which mean Cordelia had  _not_  been the one to give them—and the lack of Xander’s usual method of finding directions—lots of swearing, bitching, tearing maps and eventually asking random people on the street—hadn’t given Spike a lot to go on.  The fact that Angel’s new base of operations still  _looked_  like a hotel, if rather run down and unkempt, only offered more distractions.

He dreaded his vampire’s reaction.

“Hello?”  Xander wandered around the lobby, which was much nicer than the exterior suggested, telling Spike to drop their bags on a round, grey, plushy seat in the center of the room.  “Anybody home?”

He ambled about, a bleached-blonde shadow on his heels, absently examining as he went.  The desks looked well lived in, the computer bearing obvious marks that a woman used it—nail polish on the keyboard was a dead giveaway—papers and folders scattered around the small area behind the main counter.  He dinged the bell, guessing that it was futile.

“Oh, hello!”

He and Spike both whirled, instincts already balancing their weight and bringing clenched fists up.  A young woman took a nervous half-step back, clutching the collar of her shirt in surprise.

“A-are you X-X-X—”

“Xander?  Yeah.”  It was hard not to take pity on this one.  She looked like Dawn, with her long brown hair, scrunched up face and glasses, and acted like Tara—a combination guaranteed to make both men fall instantly in love with her.  “Sorry about that,” he gestured vaguely with his still-fisted hand, “you just startled us.”

“Oh!  I’m s-sorry,” she stuttered, nervously grinning.  “I was sleepin’ upstairs, and I didn’t hear ya’ll come in, is all.  I’m supposed to show you your rooms.  Wes said he thought ya’ll might be comin’ tonight.  They had to go out, b-but they should be back soon.  Oh, and I’m Fred.  Short for Winifred.”

Xander smiled as encouragingly as he could.  He could feel Spike’s curious gaze, carefully hidden so not to startle the little one.  “Thanks.  Can we see them now?  We’re both kinda beat.  Long day.”

“Sure.  Everyone’ll be sleepin’ when they get back, anyway, so don’t worry about anything before noon-time.”  She had a tumbling, jerky way of speaking like was oddly soothing in her little-girl’s voice.  “This way, please.”

Spike had grabbed the bags before Xander took even a step—although that was probably to stop Fred, this time, and not Xander.  They were led to a room halfway down the hallway, which had Xander nodding approvingly.  It was far enough away that if Spike wanted to sleep during the day, he wouldn’t be disturbed by the noise from downstairs—but if there was trouble, a shout would be sufficient to get help.

Living on the Hellmouth had taught Xander to be aware of all kinds of things.

They were shown two rooms, although he was fairly certain that was just a formality and an attempt at being polite.  There was something in Fred’s eyes that said  _she_ , at least, knew they’d be sharing a bed.  And they would be, if he wanted Spike to sleep at all.

“Thanks.”  He waited until Spike was inside the bigger of the two rooms, putting their things away and checking the room over.  “It was nice meeting you, Winifred.”

“Oh, please call me Fred,” she burbled at him, twisting her hands into anxious knots.  “Everyone does, even though it’s a boy’s name, because it really  _is_  my name.  Winifred sounds so silly, y’know?  I mean—well, you two get some sleep.  You had a long drive, and tomorrow’ll be pretty busy.  You wanted to take one of those Hollywood tours, right?  They’re still trying to get me to go.”

The combination of fear and wistfulness in her eyes did him in.  “How about you come with me, then?  I hate going by myself, and I can’t drag Spike to things like that.”

She blinked at him, innocent surprise telling Xander he needed to have a long conversation with Angel.  “Really?  You—you want me t’ come?  With you?”

He made himself look as goofy as possible, hoping it would put her at ease.  “Sure.  Like I said, I’d like the company.  You won’t get in trouble with—with your boss?”

“Oh, no!  He’d be so happy for me!”  Her grin was blinding, and he decided maybe he  _didn’t_  need to yell at Angel.  Definitely give some pointers on technique, though.  “I’d love to go with you!”

“Great!  It’s a date then!”  His grin got wider as Fred glanced at the partially open door and gave Xander a sly look.  He laughed, making sure that she knew he wasn’t laughing  _at_  her.  “Now, I think I need to say good night.  I’m beat.”

“Good night, Xander.  It was good to meet you.  Good night, Spike!” she called into the room, waving as she disappeared back towards the lobby.  Chuckling, Xander entered the room Spike had chosen.

It was a fairly standard looking hotel room, although obviously recently prepared.  Spike had already put away their things and set up the room the way they liked it.  A black pillar candle burned on the nightstand, filling the room with the smell of sandalwood.  Spike was leaning against the windowsill, black out curtains pushed to one side so he could look out the southern facing window.

It was times like this he was grateful he was slightly bigger than Spike, letting him rest his chin on the vampire’s shoulder as he hugged the slim body back toward his own.  “Hey,” he said quietly while wrapping his arms around a narrow waist.  “You okay?”

Spike let his head fall back on Xander’s shoulder, snuggling deeper into the human’s hold.  “We’re in LA?”

“Yeah.  Thought it could be fun.”  Spike kept his eyes on the lightening sky—he was fascinated by sunrise and sunset, watching as much as he could without incurring direct sunlight.  “You mind?”

“’Course not.”  But the answer lacked the emotion Xander expected, whether it was derision or outrage.  “You should sleep, Xan.  You’ve been up since seven.”

“You telling me you aren’t tired, too?”

Shoulders shrugged imperceptibly, despite Xander’s hold on Spike’s body.  “I napped.  I’m good.”

“Yeah, you are.  Come show me how good you are.”

 _That_  got a response, Spike twisting around to stare at Xander in shocked surprise.  “Wh—Xan, here?”

“Why not.  No one around but Fred, and I’m sure she won’t be able to hear us.”

“Yeah, but. . .”  It was a struggle for him to argue, Xander could see that.  The wild-eyed look of panic wasn’t a good thing, either.  “Xan—”

Sighing, Xander did the only thing he could do when Spike was like this—he kissed him.  Long and hard, it lasted through the move from the window to the bed.  Quickly stripping, Xander kissed and licked his way down Spike’s stomach and then past the low-hanging balls.  Spike was  _incredibly_  sensitive on his perineum, so Xander spent a good five minutes licking and sucking on that small piece of skin.

When Spike started to moan and gasp, Xander pushed slim white legs up higher so that Spike’s weight was resting on his shoulders and neck, and he began rimming Spike in earnest.  He grinned, despite his tongue pushed far into Spike’s body, knowing what Spike was expecting. 

Once Spike was relaxed and more open—which took a while, since vampires always returned to the state they’d be in when they were turned, which meant virgin for Spike—Xander sucked on two fingers and began pumping them between tight, white cheeks.

“Xan, please,” Spike gasped out, bucking back against Xander’s hand.  “Want you.”

“You’ve got me.  Always.”  Spike started panting, a sure sign that he was lost in what his lover was doing to him.  Good.  Repositioning him flat against the bed, Xander worked his mouth for a moment, and then swooped down onto Spike’s cock.

“Ahhh!  Please, Xan, please please—want you in me!”

Xander continued to lick and suck, ignoring his lover’s pleas.  He had a plan and nothing, not even begging, was going to get him to change it.  While Spike was lost in the dual ecstasy of a warm, human mouth and warm, human fingers, Xander used his free hand to find and open the lube he’d grabbed before they’d hit the bed.  He quickly prepared himself, grateful that he had practice doing this one handed. 

Ready, he withdrew completely from Spike, rewarded by a deep, longing moan.  “Xander,  _please.”_

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”  He positioned himself, and then slowly sat down.

“Wh—no!”  Xander was ready for it, pushing Spike back down and holding him there while he adjusted.  Spike was  _big_ , and no matter how many times Xander took him in, it still required a moment or two.  Big, round eyes stared up at him in the faint light, head still occasionally shaking in denial.  “Xan, you don’t—you don’t have to do this.  Please, just fuck me.”

“I am fucking you, Spike.”  He rolled his hips, making them both throw their heads back to moan.

“But—”

“When was the last time you came?”  The furtive look before a mask of innocent curiosity covered it told Xander all he needed to know.  “You aren’t jacking off while I’m at work?”

“Of course not!” Spike said, totally outraged at the mere question.  “You know I—hell.”

Xander rolled, lifting up slightly before settling again.  He had to keep Spike distracted—the trick was not distracting  _himself_  at the same time.  “So, if you won’t without me. . .” he flexed and squeezed, trying very hard to ignore the way his prostate sparked at the pressure, “that means a week, Spike.  What’s wrong?  Wasn’t it good?”

Spike shot up, grabbing Xander’s hips and pulling him tight.  “You are the best I’ve bloody ever had,” he said in a low, intense voice.  “Don’t you ever doubt that!”  Eyes the color of midnight blue stared at him, entreating and heartfelt.

Xander kissed Spike, reassured by the color change—they were only that dark blue when Spike was being totally serious.  “They why won’t you come?”

Spike sank back down, turning his head so he could see the partially open window.  “Can’t.”

Xander rolled in a circle again, knowing how much Spike loved that.  “Why not?  Is it—”

“No!”  He felt Spike thrust up just the tiniest bit, rubbing Xander in the  _best_  ways.  “No, I. . . neprmon.”

Huh?  He—oh.  That was. . . unexpected.  Xander slowly slid up and down, varying angles and speeds until he found one he liked.  Still thinking about what Spike had said.  It wasn’t so much what Spike now needed—that was something he was going to discuss at length with Angel and a variety of written sources—but that Spike hadn’t had any intention of telling Xander.  Despite the fact that they led very active sex lives and that after a week Spike’s erection had been turning  _black_ , Spike had still had no intention of telling his lover what he needed.

Xander was hurt, but he buried that deeply.  Spike would go catatonic if he thought he was hurting the human.  Instead he just picked up the pace and leaned forward so that his chest rubbed up against Spike’s.  He loved the feel of pebble-hard nipples scraping along his, and the way his warmth and Spike’s coolness enveloped his own erection.

“Harder, Spike!” he gasped out, knowing that the vampire was holding back.  Gradually, Spike began meeting Xander’s downward thrusts with his own upward ones, the shock of it making Xander moan louder.  He loved it when Spike was forceful with him, loved the coiled power that could break him in two—and never would.  “God, Spike, you feel so good in me.”

Spike could only moan his response, incoherent after a week of pleasuring Xander without taking any for himself.  Which was exactly what Xander wanted.  Grinning wickedly, he waited until he was right on the edge.  “Cum for me,” he whispered, leaning forward and biting hard on the vampire’s bloodless jugular.

With a scream, Spike arched up and released himself deeply into Xander, who was already coming from the sound of Spike’s pleasure.  They both froze in their respective positions, fire burning through their skins as they took pleasure in each other.

This was what he had missed, Xander thought happily as he lifted up and slithered into Spike’s cool arms.  Still panting, he licked at the teeth marks deep in Spike’s flesh.  Spike moaned in pleasure, hardening instantly.

“Again?” Xander asked teasingly.  “You want more?”

“No—yes—god, Xa—”  But Xander had just chuckled, whispered the same thing as before, and bit down hard enough that he broke the skin.  Spike bucked and shook, clutching Xander hard enough that he’d have finger-shaped bruises the next morning.  He didn’t mind—it wouldn’t be the first or last time that had happened.

He was careful  _not_  to swallow any of the blood—vampire blood affected humans like speed, but without the crash afterwards.  Beside, he wanted to sleep after this.  Once it had stopped bleeding, Xander again licked at the wounds he’d made.  “You taste so good, Spike.  Can I taste you?”

“God, Xander. . .”

Semen from both of them was pooled on Spike’s stomach, coating Spike’s cock and balls.  Grinning, Xander slowly began to clean up every drop.  They tasted incredibly mixed together, human salt mixed with vampire copper.  Sometimes he wished he could live on this mixture alone, because nothing else could ever compete for sheer deliciousness.  Not even chocolate!

Spike was moaning again, thrashing his head back and forth as he forced his torso totally still under that warm, wet tongue.  Still grinning, Xander continued his way down, skipping the once again hard erection to lap at the nearly hairless balls.  For some reason, Spike had almost no hair anywhere except his head.  It had fascinated Xander for weeks, feeling that silky smooth skin rub up against his own.

Once his balls were clean, Xander gave in to the pleading from the top of the bed and swung his lower half up to Spike’s waiting mouth.  “Thank you,” he heard breathed as a familiar tongue and powerful suction began to work him.  He moaned as he took Spike into his mouth, which made Spike moan against  _him_ , a familiar cycle making it that much better.

When Xander felt himself get close again, he pulled off and looked back between his legs.  “I wanna drink you,” he whispered seductively.  Spike shivered and moaned, sucking Xander down to the root.  “I want you to fill me.  Don’t want to eat anything else ever again, so long as I have you inside me.”  Spike was thrusting against nothing now, eyes tightly closed as he tried to find the friction Xander was denying him.  “Let me drink you, Spike, please?  Let me.”

Swooping down, he deep throated Spike’s cock, scraping his teeth down the length of it before biting—very gently—as he swallowed.

Spike’s body froze, not a single sound vibrating against Xander as he came, and came, and came until Xander thought he really  _was_  trying to fill him up.  He swallowed it all, savoring the copper-and-cream taste of his vampire, and licking the softening member clean once Spike finally relaxed.

At least, that’s what he  _tried_  to do.  He was humming as he cleaned, something he knew Spike enjoyed, when he felt a throat tighten around the head of his dick, and needle-sharp teeth prick against the sensitive skin at the top of his balls.

He howled, pushing himself deeper into the willing throat, cutting himself just a little before the teeth became flat and blunt again.  Spike’s hands stroked his buttocks as he swallowed  _his_ favorite mixed drink—Xander-blood and Xander-cum.

It took a few minutes for them both to recover.

Xander barely had enough energy to finish his task, while Spike did the same.  He felt that rough-soft tongue swipe over the small cuts until they were closed, a rumbling sound vibrating through his entire body.

“That was incredible,” he murmured as the vampire got him turned around and pulled him in close.  Xander managed to grab the blankets and yank them up, snuggling down into the slowly warming body beside him.  “You’re incredible.”

Spike nuzzled his ear, kissing the skin below it.  “Go to sleep, Xan.  You’re exhausted.”

“Yeah.  I still love you.”

The purring became even stronger, which was the only answer he ever needed.


	3. Chapter 3

“So why don’t you start at the beginning?”

Xander looked at Angel out of the corner of his eye, ostensibly watching the front door—that was very important, for both of them.  Cordelia had stressed that, over and over.  If everyone else was going to clear out and let them talk privately, then by god, they were going to make sure no potential clients were ignored.

It made him wonder just who, exactly, was in charge of Angel investigations.  He was betting on Cordelia, for everything but the actual fights.

“Well, once upon a time, there was this old guy who worked at a library and he saw this pretty little blonde girl and thought she would be just  _perfect_  for this huge, leather-bound book and—”

“Xander!”

He grinned, feeling fifteen again.  They’d been cordially civil so far, and it was starting to grate on Xander’s nerves.  He  _knew_  they were different—this much more open and colorful man in front of him was not the same Angel he’d known and hated in high school, and he wasn’t anything like the little prick who’d  _been_  so jealous during high school.  But them being friendly?  Without the big blow-out scene first?  Something was way wrong there.

“What, you still don’t like my jokes?”  He laughed at himself, leaning back in the chair so that it rested precariously on one leg.  He liked the lobby.  All dark wood and bright colors.  It was very  _yellow_  for the abode of a vampire—nice.

“You and Spike, Xander, I want to know about—does that get any easier to say?”  The faintly distasteful expression did him in.  Whooping, Xander fell backwards onto the floor.  Angel watched in bemusement as Xander struggled to regain composure so he could get up again.  It took a while.  “I’m serious.  You know I almost went up to Sunnydale, the first time Giles told me?  I’m  _still_  not sure why I was going to go there—to yell at Spike for using you, or to yell at you for using Spike.”

That made him calm slightly, although he was still grinning as he got himself positioned again.  “Yeah, Willow told me.  She also told me that if you  _did_  ever show your face to do those things, she was gonna actually perform that spell she kept threatening you with.  Wanna let me know what it is?”

The faint distaste became outright fear, which made Xander laugh again—although not so acrobatically.  “Um, lets just say that she’s become very powerful.”

“Oh, yeah, Wills is regular hell on wheels when it comes to the magic, now.  So don’t be making her mad, Mister!”

Neanderthal brow moving up and down in complete agreement.  Xander tried hard not to laugh for a third time—he’d forgotten how  _easy_  Angel was to rile up, even after the significant changes the vampire had gone through.  And they were significant; Angel was much more human now, no doubt bullied that way by the still-overbearing but completely-lovable Cordelia.  Who had shrieked and hugged him like a long lost brother when she’d seen him.

Living here was certainly going to be interesting, that was for sure.

“The beginning?” Angel prompted again.

“Right.  That would be about a year and a half ago, right after the whole mess with Adam.  Spike had managed to worm his way back into our won’t-stake-you-on-sight graces, but he suddenly started showing up, all the time.  None of us thought about it too much, we were too busy ignoring, insulting, or using him.”  Xander kept his voice frank and level.  He wasn’t proud of this particular part of his life, although Spike had repeatedly told him that, as an evil vampire, he’d deserved all of it and more. 

“He’d help Buffy patrol, did a  _lot_  to help Giles when he was just taking over the Magic Box, started ‘remembering’ languages and spells to help out Wills and Tara.  He also got real chummy with Anya—” which Xander had  _not_  been thrilled about— “and started being an active caretaker for Dawn.”

“For  _Dawn?_   Buffy’s sister, Dawn?  The girl who hated me on sight and Buffy wouldn’t let me near?”

“Yeah, that Dawn.”  He was just grateful that he didn’t have to explain too much to the older vampire—Glory and the Key were still very touchy subjects.  “She’d always liked him, thought he was, and I quote, ‘way cool’, and when Buffy needed babysitters she would always ask for him.” 

Xander asked her once why she wanted Spike to sit with her, instead of himself and Anya.  She’d told him that Spike didn’t treat her like a little girl, but he wasn’t going to let  _anything_ bad happen to her, either.  He’d tell her to her face that she was being an idiot and go hide, or he’d rip her skin off himself.

Why she enjoyed threats so much he’d  _never_  understand.

“Okay, so Spike was working his way into the inner circle.”  Angel looked a bit nonplused at that—he’d never really been accepted by anyone but Buffy, even before the whole soul, curse, insane vampire bit.  “And you weren’t suspicious about this?”

“Of course we were.  But Spike isn’t big on patience and this went on for  _months_.  So when nothing happened. . . we just kinda let it go.  Time passed, yadda yadda.  Dawn got into trouble, Buffy and Riley started having fights, and me and Anya broke up.  No big fight, we just both moved on.  Pretty cool, given our track records.  More time went by, Gl—Glory got scarier and more threatening, Spike thought he was in love with Buffy, and I—I got hurt.”

“Which had nothing to do with Anya telling you she and Giles might be getting together?”

“Actually, no.”  Xander forced himself to grin disarmingly, meeting Angel’s suddenly too-perceptive gaze.  When the hell did Mr. Clueless get a clue?  Or even several?  Maybe Cordy was a bad influence after all.  “No, I firmly maintain that it was coincidence.  I mean, it’d been almost two months since we split, and we were good friends.  But it did happen within a few weeks of each other, and I. . . wasn’t dealing too well.”

An understanding nod, which sparred Xander from the still-uncomfortable explanations that no, he  _wasn’t_  upset, and no, he  _wasn’t_  jealous.  Well, not really.  Because he sort of was, but it was. . .

“Generic?”

His head whipped up to stare at Angel in shock.  “What—how did you—”

Angel smiled a tiny, sheepish smile—something Xander couldn’t remember  _ever_  happening during high school—and tilted his head.  “I feel it, every time I see a couple in love.  It doesn’t have anything to do with their happiness with each other, it’s that you  _don’t_  have it.  And in my case, can’t.”

“Yeah.  That’s it, exactly.”  Xander tried not to blink or look shocked—compassion from Angel was  _weird._     “I mean, I was happy that they were happy.  I just wanted to be that happy, too.  So, yeah.  I was pretty depressed, I’ll admit, but please don’t tell them.  Willow just gets all guilty.  I guess I was careless at work, I don’t really remember a whole lot.  One minute I’m trying to get up the scaffolding, the next I’m in the hospital bed with everyone around me.”

Wills and Dawn had been crying, openly sobbing with relief when he opened his eyes.  Buffy had that frustrated look of wanting to slay what had hurt her friend, and being unable to.  Giles had been the most amusing—he was funny when he was frazzled like that, stretched between his ‘children’ and trying to do the best for all of them.  Anya and Tara just supported their mates, but they’d been very sweet to him, grateful that he was okay.  That was when he and Ahn had really made up.

“I was okay—busted leg, some cracked ribs and a bad concussions—and it was going to take a lot of rehab for me to be able to move right again.  No permanent damage, though, and everything healed up fine.  The problem was I needed someone to take of me, pretty much constantly.  I couldn’t do anything for myself, not even go to the bathroom.  I was getting decent compensation from work, but I couldn’t afford a live-in nurse, and I couldn’t ask any my friends—they all had lives and duties of their own.”

That’s when he’d hit rock bottom, depression-wise.  He was injured, and he  _hated_  being injured, totally dependent on someone else to care of his needs, and he didn’t really have that anyone else to care for him.  Even if he’d still been dating Anya, she couldn’t have handled being nursemaid, and he told her that when she offered.  She’d tried not to look too grateful.

“I was in the hospital for a week, and I was dreading coming home.  The apartment was a  _mess_ , and it was going to be hell just getting me from the door to the bedroom.  I was  _not_ going to ask Buffy for help, she needed to be with her mother, which meant no super-strength to solve the problem.”

He’d been racking his brains for what to do—pretty difficult given the headache he’d had.  Giles offered to drive him home, which Xander had agreed to, but after that point he come up totally blank.  No one beside Anya had realized just how much help he was going to need; they kept hearing ‘full recovery’ from the doctor and didn’t pay attention to much else.  Which was  _not_  their fault, and Xander hadn’t blamed them then or now.

“So it’s this really cloudy day.  The sky was almost black, and it felt like it was going to pour any minute.  Suited my mood, perfectly.  Giles got me into the car, and then into my building.  Thank god the elevator was working, cause I was stuck in a wheelchair.  He gets me to my door and he starts looking really nervous, and I can tell he really just wants to open my door and leave.  So I tell him it’s okay.  He can do that, I’ll manage fine.”

The look on Angel’s face was priceless—and made Xander suddenly feel a lot better about the next few weeks.  He looked totally outraged, like he was going to have a few choice words the next time he spoke with Giles or any of the other Scoobies.  “He just  _left_  you?”

“Buffy’s mom was just getting out of surgery.  Buffy was a wreck and she really  _did_  need someone to take care of her.  Riley wasn’t cutting it, Spike couldn’t be there during the day, and the only person she had left was Giles.  So, yeah, he left.  I kinda insulted him until he did.  And don’t yell at him—he feels guilty enough.”

Giles had opened the door, gave Xander a push inside, and then shut it behind him.  Xander remembered staring at the floor for a very long time, trying to decide what he was going to do first.  Then he looked up.

“It was clean.  Like, spotless clean, the way it hadn’t been even when Anya lived with me.  Everything was put away, dusted and vacuumed.  I could smell something cooking in the kitchen.  For a minute, I thought I was in the wrong place.”  Then preternaturally strong arms had gathered him up, so carefully that it didn’t hurt his bruised and broken body, and carried him over to the sofa, which had been carefully arranged to hold someone who wasn’t going to be moving from it all that often.

“I wanted to yell, you know?  I wanted to know what the hell he thought he was doing.  Especially when he started working the hospital gown off of me.” He’d tried, too, but he’d been ignored.  Stark naked, except for the bandages carefully covered with plastic so they wouldn’t get wet, he was then carried—still yelling his head off and threatening to get Buffy—over to his bathroom, where a hot bath was waiting for him.

“I don’t know if you know what hospitals are like, but after an hour you want to go home and be clean again.  After a solid week, I thought I had things  _growing_  on me.  So I just shut up.  It wasn’t hurting, in fact it felt really good.  So I just. . . let it happen.”

He’d been so gentle.  Xander couldn’t remember when he’d been touched so softly before.  Once all the sweat and grim and dust from the site had been washed off, Spike had slid in behind him so that his neck and shoulders could be rubbed, easing the tension of being forced into an unfamiliar position while his body healed.  By the time the water was cooling and he was lifted out, he was nothing more than a large puddle of Xandergoo, content to let the day just play out.

He was dressed in his loose, comfortable flannels, fed decent-tasting soup, although he really wasn’t hungry, took his pills on time, and spent the afternoon dozing in front of the television while his new nursemaid cleaned up the damage the bath and the soup had caused.  When he’d woken up in the middle of the night, somehow in his bed, it had been all of two seconds before Spike was there to soothe the tears and croon him back to sleep.

“It went like that for the next few weeks.  The only time he was gone was when Buffy really needed a hand or Willow was coming over.  She was  _not_  comfortable with Spike, the undead English Patient, so he’d go out for blood or a fight or something.  I always tried to get him to go out at least every couple of days, but usually if I was awake, he was there with me.  Then rehab started.”

That had  _not_  been fun.  Angel gave another of those weird, understanding nods—but this was different, because he was sure one of his friends had bitched about his behavior at least once.   “Four weeks it took to get me back up to barely half-strength, and by then none of my friends would talk to me—except Spike.  He never left, the whole time.  Not when I was screaming at him, calling him all kinds of names, not when I was threatening to kill him, or me, or sobbing like a baby.  He never left.”

Somehow, during those hellish weeks, Xander had come to depend on the cool body that slept beside him every night.  Oh, Spike had started out in the spare bedroom, but then he’d moved to the floor when he realized that Xander didn’t sleep well at night, and finally to Xander’s bed when he’d gotten fed up with the snarky comments about the puppy that slept by the door.  More times that Xander could count, he’d woken up sobbing, already pressed to a welcoming shoulder and comforting words being whispered into his hair.

“Do all vampires purr?”

“Um. . . well, we all  _can_ ,” Angel hedged, looking sheepish and a bit silly.  “Why?”

“Spike purrs.  A lot.  Sometimes it was the only way I could fall asleep.”  It was a measure of his desperation and growing trust that he mentioned it at all—only Dawn knew Spike purred, and for many of the same reasons as Xander.

“Really.  That’s.. . . interesting.”

“Thought it might be.  You wanna talk about it now, or hear the rest of the story.  It’s still pretty long.”

“All of it, please.  Then I think we’ll a need a break before I start talking.”

“Sure.”  Xander began doodling on the pad in front of him.  This part was harder.  Much harder.  “By the time I was healthy, Spike was a part of my life.  Willow had stopped threatening him whenever she came over, and actually approved of the way he took care of me.  Dawn used to come over a lot to be with her ‘big brothers’, and Buffy was just happy that if Spike was at my place, Dawn wasn’t at the cemetery.  She still threatened to stake him a lot, though.  Giles had lectured him within an inch of his unlife, but by then we were pretty sure there was no agenda.  He just wanted to help.

“And then it went to hell.”

The Watcher’s came, the Scoobies found out just what was at stake—which Angel was  _not_  going to find out from Xander—Buffy’s mom died, and the Knights forced their hand.  Xander had been completely healthy and mobile by that time, so other than his car sickness, he’d been an active part of the abortive flight and then attack on the tower—especially since Spike’s method of re-teaching him how to walk had included enough martial arts that he wasn’t totally helpless anymore.

But Buffy still died.

“I think. . . I think that’s maybe when it started.  I don’t know.  I don’t remember a. . . whole lot, from then.  I remember Dawn wouldn’t eat, and only Spike could make her.”  By threatening to tie her up and force-feed her, giving her incredibly detailed descriptions of rope burns and choking before she learned how to breathe and swallow at the same time.  She’d stopped arguing after that. 

“Willow couldn’t stop crying, and it was Spike who finally slapped her, despite the chip, and told Tara to take her away for a while and get themselves together.  Giles wanted to go back to England, and Anya thought maybe she’d go with him.  Spike made them stay.  Told Giles that he was running away, if he thought his job was done, and he had more children than just Buffy and they needed him too.” 

He forced himself to grin a little.  “He slept with Dawn, every night.  For two weeks, he was by her side constantly.  Wouldn’t let her be alone for even an instant.  Willow screamed at him, telling him that he was a pervert if he thought he’d just move in on Buffy’s sister since Buffy was. . . gone.  He got—so mad.  I don’t think I  _ever_  seen him so mad.  To think that he would—”

Xander got up, unable to sit there and just remember what it had been like.  Pacing, he tried to get rid of the images and sounds that crowded his mind.

The hate on Willow’s face because it was Spike Dawn always wanted, not Buffy’s best friend, and the pure rage when Spike called her on it.  When she turned on Xander, demanding that he get up and referee when all he could was sit there and try and imagine his life without the strongest person he knew.  Without the part of his life that was sunshine and laughter.

Spike had laughed, then, calling her a selfish little bitch, and if she tried to manipulate Dawn like that, he’d take her away.  Didn’t matter where, but he’d take her away and  _nothing_ , not even magic, would be able to find them.  It was the deadly seriousness in his voice that finally got through to them, making them really  _hear_  what Spike was saying. 

Giles told Spike he wouldn’t dare.  Spike said that if he thought that was best for Dawn, he’d damned well do it.

 _“Buffy told me to protect her ’till the end of the world.  World’s still turning, innit?  So it’s still my job to protect her.  That means from psychotically grieving friends just as much as the nasties.  Dawn is_ mine _, now.  Buffy gave her to me, to protect from_ everyone _—even you.”_

And Dawn was clinging to him, totally trusting of the evil, dead thing her sister had given her to, and they had—woken up.  “How much did Willow tell you? About Glory?”

“I know that it was somehow tied up in Dawn’s life.  That if she died. . . it would stop.  That’s why Buffy—jumped.  The blood.”

“Yeah.  Giles, I know he didn’t mean—none of us did, but we were desperate and it was  _Buffy_ —but he kinda thought, if Dawn weren’t there. . .  That’s why she went to Spike.  Well, one reason.  Because he would never hurt Dawn, no matter what.  Buffy once said the last thing Dawn would see was her sister fighting to save her life.  With Spike—he would have been ash before he let something hurt Dawn.

“That did it for us.  We started living again.  The girls took summer classes to have something to do.  The rest of us threw ourselves into our work, and Spike. . . Spike took care of us all.  He cooked our meals, he cleaned our apartments, he bullied us into training and researching again, helped Dawn with her homework, forced us to take breaks when we needed  _that_ —everything.”

“And you?  How did you deal, Xander?”

“What?”  He stopped pacing, glancing back at Angel in time to catch the brief look of relief.  Then the concern came back.

“What about you?  You’ve talked about how everyone else broke down, except you and Spike.  So how did you deal?  And what happened when Spike broke down?”

“Why would you think Spike would break down?”  Misdirection, misdirection was key.

The skeptical expression told Xander that he hadn’t fooled the vampire.  “Spike broke down, because that’s the way Spike is.  I know him, even if he doesn’t believe it anymore.”  Then, more quietly, “He loved her.  It wasn’t a good love, or a practical love, but he loved her.”

“Buffy used to say that vamps can’t love.  That you could only because of the soul.”

A tiny grin and then Angel was copying Xander’s acrobatics with the chair, looking calm and relaxed.  “Spike’s never been a conventional vampire.  None of my childer ever were.  He could love.  Angelus beat him for it, but in the end, that’s why Dru always came back to him.  Because he did love.  Strongly.  So what happened?”

“I pretended.  I lived my life like everything was fine.  Even managed to convince Willow, so it must have been pretty good.  But I didn’t care anymore.  Spike saved my life dozens of times on patrol, I only ate when Spike put food in front of me, and how I didn’t kill myself at work I’ll never know.”

“And Spike?”

Xander hugged himself, remembering the sick feeling when he’d finally realized.  “Spike stopped eating.  Any spare bit of cash he found went to Dawn—we were all funneling money for her.  No money, meant no blood; he’d buy expensive chocolates or pretty earrings, instead.  I saw it first.”

Dawn had wanted a girls’ night, so he and Spike had gone to the Bronze and pretended they were ‘hunting birds’.  They’d gotten drunk, somehow ending up at Xander’s place and slept tangled together the way the hadn’t for nearly a month.  Xander had woken up first, only mildly hung over, and fascinated by the shirtless-Spike in his bed.  The shirtless, prominent ribs-and collarbones-Spike.

“He’d taken care of all of us, you know?  Me for a lot longer, but ever since Buffy was gone, he’d taken care of  _all_  of us.  And no one was taking care of him.  So. . . I did.  I bought him blood and forced him to drink it.  He didn’t want to, said Dawn needed the money more.” 

Except it was already paid for—Xander had arranged for a supply to be delivered regularly—and if he didn’t want a repetition of what  _Spike_  had gone through with  _Dawn_  he’d damn well drink the nasty blood Xander had bought and heated for him.  Looking amazed and a little frightened, Spike had complied.

“He kinda became  _my_  focus, I guess.  I knew how to take care of Spike, I’d been living with him for months.  I had a talk with Dawn and she helped me get him to move back to my place, where at least he was away from Willow and Tara—way too much estrogen in that house.  It’s why Giles didn’t move in when the Wiccas did.”

“So when did you two become. . .”

“Lovers?  Not that long afterwards.”

* * *

Xander had been tired.  Tired of being alone, of working his ass off, of being surrounded by way too many women, of just about everything.  He wanted to watch some porn, drink some beer, and get off—all those good, American male things.  So he’d told Spike he wanted a guy’s night.  Rented a few flicks, had Spike pick up some decent imported beer, and they’d sat down to, as Spike put it, have a wank together.

Xander had long ago stopped being body-shy around Spike—it happened when you took baths together.  Totally platonic at the time, but Spike had refused to get his clothes soaked for Xander’s modesty.  So when they’d sat down on the couch, pants open and pushed slightly down, Xander had been able to concentrate totally on the movie in front of him.

He’d been nicely into it; watching silicone-breasts bounce temptingly, enjoying the firm, measured rhythm as he stroked himself.  Just beginning to pant, he glanced over at Spike just to see if his. . . friend? companion?. . . was enjoying it too.

Spike was staring at him.  Watching his hand move up and down, licking his lips like he wanted to take over.  He  _was_  rubbing himself, but it could have been the Three Stooges on the tv for all Spike cared.  He was getting off on Xander.

And Xander got harder, because of it.

Spike’s nostrils flared as Xander moaned, the addition rush of heat totally removing any interest in the movie.  “Xan?” Spike’s voice was very soft, almost hesitant.  “Xan, can I ask you something?”

“Um. . . okay.  Sure.  What?”

“Would you—I need—” he licked his lips, keeping his eyes focused on Xander’s still-moving hand.  “Could you fuck me?  Please, I—please?”

Just like that.  He’d never heard Spike sound like that, not in nearly four years of knowing the snarky vampire.  So young, and desperate and alone—as alone as Xander felt.

And suddenly Xander found himself kissing those sweet, pouty lips, rubbing his body against one that felt so different from the bodies he’d rubbed against before.  God, it felt—he kept his touch light, expecting Spike to take charge, to show him what to do.  He knew Spike was no stranger to gay sex, and that he was.  But it never happened.  Spike just let Xander kiss him, tongues tangling together and teeth clacking when Xander pressed in harder.  Hands ran up and down his sides and back, but they never went under the shirt.  Like  _he_  was waiting for  _Xander._

Frustrated, Xander yanked at Spike’s shirt, suddenly consumed with the thought of tasting that cool, silky skin.  He immediately latched onto tiny, pink nipples, trying to figure out the differences between these and the female ones he was used to.  Tonguing them with the flat of his tongue got the loudest moans, Spike’s hips thrusting up into his thigh so that Xander could feel just how female Spike wasn’t.

So hard Xander thought he was going to burst, he ripped Spike’s pants the rest of the way off, shimmying frantically to get rid of his own.  Pushed his own hips forward so that his erection slid against Spike’s.  They moaned into each other’s mouths.  For a while they just thrust and rubbed like that, before Xander realized something very important.

“Shit, lube!  Spike, we don’t have lube!”

“M’a vampire,” Spike mumbled as he sucked on Xander’s earlobe.  “Don’t need lube.”

That made Xander pull away.  “I am not taking you dry, Spike.  I don’t care how much you might get off on it.   _I_  wouldn’t.”  In fact, his erection was starting to soften at the thought of it.

Ice blue eyes turned the deepest sky blue Xander had ever seen, widening with some emotion he couldn’t name.  Whatever it was. . . it looked like he’d just offered Spike a way to get the chip out.  “Got lube,” Spike mumbled, pushing at Xander so that he was sitting upright on the couch again, Spike draped across it with his head in Xander’s lap.

And Xander’s dick in Spike’s mouth.

“Oh, my god!”  Anya hadn’t ever felt like  _this_ , not ever!  Sucking him so hard that he thought his dick might get ripped off, Spike still did a decent job of thickly coating his dick with saliva and precum.

“See?” Spike said with a ghost of a smile.  “Lube.”

“Not—not enough.”  He was panting and gasping and seconds away from cumming, but there was still no way in hell he was going to hurt Spike like that.  And virgin boy he may be, but he knew enough about gay sex to know that it  _hurt_  without any preparation.

But Spike was making urgent, pleading noises, breathy moans and chants of please and now and fuck me and please.

He needed to find lube for Spike and fast, or he was going to cum from the sound of the vampire begging.

There—lotion.  Innocently sitting on the table, left over from Anya’s occasional visits.  He grabbed it, coated his fingers and nervously placed his forefinger at the tiny, tight entrance to Spike’s body.  “Tell me if I hurt you,” he whispered, easing it passed the tight ring of muscles.

The deep, guttural moans didn’t  _sound_  like pain.  He worked it the way the porn mags he’d never read said to, carefully adding two more fingers when he could, scissoring them to open Spike fully.  Spike was humping the couch, moaning continuously around the Xander-bits still in his mouth.

“Ready?” he panted.  “Spike, tell me you’re ready?  I don’t want to hurt you.”  It was amazing how coherent he was—with Anya he’d just been a moaning lump while she decided what they were going to do that time.  “Spike, you have to tell me.”

Spike’s mouth made a wet, popping sound as he lifted up.  “Ready,  _please.”_

“On the floor.”  Spike slid off the couch, resting his head on his forearms with his ass thrust up into the air.  It was totally unromantic and without the foreplay Xander was accustomed to, but damn if Spike didn’t look absolutely delicious like that.

He carefully lined himself up and pressed forward.  “Oh,  _gods_ , Xan harder!  Y’won’t break me.  Please, harder.”

Xander shook his head, sweat flying off his face, refusing to go any faster until he was fully seated deep within Spike’s ass.  And  _oh_ , did that feel good.  So much tighter, and when Spike _squeezed. . ._

“You okay?”

The hitching sound of a sob traveled through their joined bodies.   _“Please,_  Xander, stop teasin’ an’ just  _fuck me!”_

How was he supposed to refuse a request like that?

Back, and forth, in and out he moved, Spike meeting every thrust with a squeeze that threatened to do him in.  Moaning and grunting and Spike whispering about how good he felt, how hot and big and full inside him.  How perfect he was, how wonderful, how—

“Spike!”  “Xander!”

* * *

“And after that?” 

Xander wondered if it was bad to make a normally pale vampire go white-faced.  And he’d given Angel the  _edited_  version, too.  “After that?  I flipped out, Spike left.  I went after him, told him that me having a gender crisis didn’t have anything to do with  _him_ , and would he please come home.  When that didn’t work, I told Dawn—so not a fun conversation—and  _she_ told him to go home before she knocked him out and dragged him there.”

“Everyone else?”

“Dealt.  Some more happily than others, but Dawn and Anya were pretty firmly on our side, and Tara couldn’t see the bad, so we won Willow and Giles over.  And when Buffy came back. . . ” Xander shuddered, purposefully blocking out the memories.  His nightmares were reserved for those few weeks, and he’d  _never_  consciously think about it otherwise. “Buffy didn’t like it, but since the rest of us accepted it, she learned to.  That was seven months ago, now, so no big problems anymore.”

“You’ve been together that long?”

“Nine months two weeks from now.” 

Angel nodded, looking thoughtful.  “Alright.  That’s. . . quite a lot to go on, so how about you check up on Spike, and I’ll do some research.  Besides, if I don’t let Cordelia back in here soon, she’s going to burst.”  He raised his voice slightly, “If she’s not already eavesdropping!”

When silence met his words, they shared a grin.  Xander could get to like this new, more human Angel.  He was  _definitely_  better than the must-brood-about-Buffy Angel.  But liking Angel was just a perk.  If he–any version, even Angelus—could help with Spike, than Xander was willing to put up with a great deal.

He wanted his lover back.


	4. Chapter 4

“God, I  _love_  cotton candy!” Fred gushed with, what Xander had come to discover, her customary enthusiasm.  Angel had privately confided that he thought the oddly childish behavior was a result of living in Pylea for five years.  After spending the day with her, however, Xander didn’t think so.  Part of it was due to the lack of normal, healthy interaction between peers that most teenagers needed and hated.  But most of it was just happy, innocent Fred.

“You still want that popcorn?”  Xander was playing the attentive boyfriend, gallant and charming when he wasn’t being silly.  It was his usual habit when squiring any of his girls to their various functions.

“Oh!  Popcorn!  But. . . no, I couldn’t.  You’ve been so good to me, payin’ for everythin’ and takin’ me all around L.A. . . ”

Xander grinned and bowed.  “One bag of popcorn coming up.”  He’d cornered Angel over breakfast, asking a barrage of questions about Fred—Sweet Little Fred, of the bubbling brook voice tinged with just a hint of Texas twang.  It wasn’t the hesitancy that bothered him; shyness, especially trauma-related, he understood.  It was the wide-eyed amazement whenever he did something nice for her.  More, if she’d wanted to do the dumb tourist bit, why the hell hadn’t anyone  _taken_  her?

The answer was complicated.  The first complication was actually pinning down  _time_ to have fun.  Emergencies and end-of-the-world events were quite common and personal plans were of necessity flexible.  If they weren’t, people died.  So finding the time to do it was difficult . . . but doable.  The next, more important, problem was  _who_ would do it?

 Cordelia was good for shopping and bonding over mochas and complaining about their boys—but getting on a bus to look at famous people’s houses?  Not her style.  Angel had the whole sunlight issue.  Lorne, the green skinned demon with red eyes and horns, was similarly restricted by his non-human status.  Wesley and the big black guy, Gunn, were better choices, but they still weren’t exactly studio-lot types.

That wasn’t to say that they hadn’t offered, or that the offers had been insincere.  Fred, however, had displayed that abrupt adult understanding and denied them—most of the time.  “I mean, Cordelia always wanted to  _be_  one of those movie stars, with the big houses and the fancy clothes.  How could I make her watch it all and enjoy it with me when she knows she can’t ever have it?”  She’d been unwilling to risk injury to Angel or Lorne, and she  _certainly_  wasn’t going to drag Wesley and Gunn away from each other.

It was that oblique reference that had convinced Xander that she  _wasn’t_  emotionally . . . wrong, or damaged, or whatever.  The sly look was back in her eyes now, and if Xander hadn’t been intimately familiar with the things gay men did to continue looking straight, he probably wouldn’t have caught the knowing glint accompanying her description.

“So,” he said while Fred happily alternated between cotton candy and greasy salty popcorn.  The girl ate like a horse, but given the active lifestyle she led, Xander wasn’t surprised.  “Wes and Gunn, huh?  Didn’t think G-man Junior had it in him.”

A casual statement but Xander got another one of those corner-looks.  “They’re pretty sweet together.  But don’t tell anyone, okay?”  She didn’t look the least bit repentant that Xander had figured it out.  “Angel and Cordelia don’t know yet.  Me’n Lorne haven’t told them—or the other them, either.”

Years of dealing with Willowbabble was apparently a good thing.  That actually made sense.  “I won’t confront Wes and Gunn about their journey to the other side of the street, as Spike would say.  _Or_  let Angel and Cordy know what’s going on.  How long have they been together?”

“About four months.  It was kinda slow.”  A mischievous smile lit up her pixie-bright face, making her eyes sparkle behind her glasses.  He  _had_  to get Fred up to Sunnydale; she could babble with Willow, be shy and hide with Tara, and get co-opted into makeovers and nail-painting sessions with Dawn.  She’d love it.  “Maybe you could kinda give ’em hints?  About how, y’know, it’s  _okay_  to come out to your friends? That they aren’t gonna care so much?”

He laughed as they walked along the Santa Monica pier.  It was just barely sunset, almost time to drive back home, but Xander didn’t want to leave yet.  It was nice to be here with someone totally new.  Every word was a delight, every gesture a treasure.  Best of all, this was someone familiar with demons and dangers that normal people couldn’t handle.  Neither of them had to hide what they did or who they were. . .

A group of teenagers shouted and ran past them, giggling about something only thirteen-year-olds could understand.  Fred gave a small start when one of them came too close, and then shivered as Xander instantly put an arm around her shoulders and drew her over towards the ocean.  He wanted to watch the sunset.

“You’re a good man, Xander Harris.”  She was just tall enough that she could lean her head on his shoulder, his arm still snugly around her shoulders.  “Whatever it is, we’ll fix it, okay?  I mean, Angel hasn’t told us what the problem  _is_ yet, but I know there is one.  And it’ll be okay, cause we’re really good at fixin’ things.  You’ll see.”

He smiled without looking at her.  He wasn’t sure he could take the earnestness he knew he’d see.  “Angel’s lucky to have you.”

“What, me?  Oh, no, I don’t. . . I mean, thank you, but I’m just. . .”

He laughed again, not bothering to explain what he meant.  She wasn’t ready to hear it, yet.  Hell, it had taken  _him_  six years for him to  _really_  hear it from Buffy.  When she was ready, Angel would let her know.  Until then . . . 

 He tightened his grip into a one-armed hug, exhaling heavily as the sun sank down beneath the water.  “Well, then.  Ready to go to dinner?”

She grinned at him, confusion disappearing completely.  “Ooh, you’ll  _love_  this place, really good Japanese food.  They have the best steaks, all thick and juicy and tender, and they never overcook ’em, don’t you hate it when they do that?  Steak should be rare. . .”

Fred babbled her way through the drive back to L.A., including the stop over at a gas station to change out of their junky clothes.  “Not quite my Sunday Best,” Xander proclaimed as they got back into the car.  “But Spike shouldn’t complain.”

“Why would he complain?”  The bewildered expression face made Xander feel better about his chinos-and-black-sweater combination.  Clothing was still a sore point with him, although over a year with Spike had had some beneficial results: Spike continually raided Xander’s closet, over Xander’s objections, and removed the outfits the vampire hated the most.

Turning Spike’s complaints into a bit of a stand-up routine, Xander kept them both amused during the drive to the restaurant.  He put effort into keeping it light and funny, but not solely to elicit Fred’s delighted laughter.

Angel had taken Spike for the whole day.  He had no idea where the two vampires were going, or what they were doing, just that Angel wanted to spend time with Spike alone, before broaching the real reason for Spike and Xander’s visit.  The initial meeting between Angel and Spike had been tense, to say the least, with neither of them giving anything away.

Not quite the family reunion he had hoped for, for Spike’s sake, but no recriminations and threats of imminent stakage, so he supposed he couldn’t complain.  Spike had shot him an unreadable look before disappearing into the basement with Angel and Xander was afraid that the vampire was mad at him.

Actually, he wasn’t afraid of it. He was  _hoping_  for it.

At the restaurant, Xander handed his keys over to the polite young valet and watched as his precious baby was driven away.  “Please,” he muttered in a quick prayer, “don’t let her be hurt, okay?”  Hey, you could never be too careful.  After meeting a Hell God, who was to say there wasn’t a Car God around somewhere?

Fred was looking at him with that weird adult-child look behind her glasses.  He let her in on the joke, pleased when she laughed appreciatively.  Making people laugh was what he did, after all.  Gallantly offering her his arm, he was surprised when she shook her head.

“I think someone else wants that arm.”  She pointed to the doorway.

Spike.  Spike  _looking_  like Spike again, except this wasn’t the expected jean-clad Spike— _fashion codes are for people who give a bloody fuck, Xander._   This,  _this_  Spike, was a far different Spike.   _Hot_  Spike.

Tight leather pants, riding low on his hips, tucked into different boots than his usual Doc Martins.  Xander didn’t know the brand, didn’t care, suddenly envisioning himself on all fours, licking the mirror-bright leather while Spike smirked above him.  Flowing silver silk shirt, with old-fashioned blouse-sleeves, cuffs held together with what looked like little silver stakes, with red rubies on them.  A black leather vest covered the shirt.  No duster, but Xander was certain it was nearby.  He wore eyeliner and mascara, the way he hadn’t in years, making those blue, blue eyes glow in the street lights.  His hair was un-gelled, lying in messy waves around his head.  He looked like a rock star, with that lazy confidence that made him acceptable in any social circle.  He looked like hot sex on legs.

Xander froze, unable to look away from the vision that drew closer to him.  And then he saw Spike’s eyes. 

His burgeoning erection softened instantly, and he felt drained as the lust and excitement fled.

Spike  _should_  have looked sexy and confident.  Yeah, most of that would have been bravado bullshit, but the question of his audience’s reaction should have been buried deep underneath the amusement and sheer sensuality that Spike  _always_  exuded.

The eyes that looked up at him were anxious, worried, desperate for approval, and fearful of Xander’s reaction.

Xander felt sick.

He forced himself to look impressed, though, filling his mind with images of the Spike he loved and missed to generate some low-level arousal.  If Spike thought he was faking, or that Xander was upset with him. . .

The last time that had happened, Spike had tried to go out the front door at noon.  When Xander had finally wrestled the struggling vampire back inside, he’d had to lock him in Spike’s old room, used as a storage room for months.  Spike had stayed in that room, doing Xander didn’t know what.  Just that it wasn’t smoking or singing or eating or shouting or fighting or even sleeping.  If he hadn’t known any better, he would have said brooding.

 When he had finally persuaded Spike to come back out, he’d refused to speak for a week and it was one more week before things began approaching ‘normal’.  The breakdown had terrified Xander because when did Spike ever shut down after a fight?  Spike  _thrived_ on fights.  He used to pick them with Buffy, just for sheer kicks.  But when he fought with Xander. . . it was like his reason for existence was being threatened.

Xander should probably mention that to Angel, sometime later.  He hadn’t meant to make his and Spike’s relationship all hearts and roses.  It wasn’t.  They had good days and bad days, arguments and misunderstandings, like every couple.  But he  _loved_  Spike.  It was worth the pain and the anguish because  _being_  with Spike made him happy.  Even if he was screaming.

Either kind of screaming.

He let his eyes drift over his sexy vampire, forcing himself to take pleasure in the appearance and not the reasons for the change.  Spike  _was_  hot; incredibly so.  Grinning in a way he knew drove Spike crazy, he leaned forward so that his lips were centimeters from Spike’s, warm air gusting over cold skin.  “All this for me?” he whispered, turning so that his lick across Spike’s lower lip was hidden.  He wanted to nip it, hard, but that could wait for later.  Practically moaning, he added, “God, Spike, what you do to me. . .”

The uncertainty disappeared.  Relaxing slightly, Xander pulled his boyfriend even closer to give him a chaste kiss—while he goosed him.  He grinned, unrepentant, into the shocked expression that resulted.   _Not_  outraged, or even horny—the two expressions he  _wanted._

“Hungry?” he asked, holding out his arm the same way he had for Fred.  Spike took it with a shy, half-smile before very,  _very_  obviously forcing himself to smirk.  It was a wavery kind of smirk, lacking the signature ‘Spikeness’ to it.  “What’d you do with Angel all day?”

Spike shrugged, answering neither question, although he looked nervous at the mention of Angel.  Crap, Xander suddenly realized.  Spike hadn’t spoken more than two words since Xander had told him that they were going to L.A.  In fact, he hadn’t spoken at  _all_  since the morning they arrived.  Double crap.

“This way, please,” a hostess said once they were all congregated in the lobby.  Following her, they were led to a private table near the back.  Xander glanced around, studying the sumptuous décor and lush furnishings.  Delicately embroidered screens, depicting some kind of battle scene, secluded their table.  Or was that a mating scene?  He wasn’t sure.  He  _knew_ the figures weren’t human, whatever they were.

“Ah, not to sound like a total rube, but this  _is_  a demon restaurant.  Right?”

Wesley chuckled at his discomfiture.  “Yes, you’re correct, although a great deal of the proprietor’s clientele  _is_  human.  The owner, and chef, is Leishan.  He’s a Rekeio demon.  I wouldn’t piss him off, if I were you, but he has no problem with humans and prefers cooking to any kind of mayhem.”

“Leish and I have a back-scratching deal,” Lorne added, comfortably lounging in his seat.  The sky blue of his suit clashed with the black and cream colors around him, but he didn’t look out of place at all.  “He’s my favorite restaurant, I’m his favorite club.  And we  _both_  have a ‘an it harm ye none’ deal.  So no fights.”

This said with a glare directed at Angel and Gunn, who both looked sheepish.  “Man,” Gunn insisted, “I was  _not_  trying to start a fight there!”

Xander let the bickering wash over him.  It was the same kind of thing the Scoobies did at home, so he wasn’t worried that there was actually a problem. This was mostly for amusement.  Once that played out, people asked him and Fred for a description of what they’d done all day.  Fred did all the talking.  Through the appetizers, the salad, the hot cloths, and most of the main course as well.

Angel made sure to keep his eyes on Fred the whole time.  Xander hated him for it.

Relaxing back against the padded seat, Xander slumped just a little until he was leaning on Spike’s shoulder.  He needed to be lower down than Spike, because then it would be obvious when he looked at his lover.

That was the  _only_  thing that would stop Spike’s expression of pure adoration.

Whenever someone glanced at Spike, it disappeared instantly—but most people weren’t looking at Spike.  They were looking at Fred.  So Spike was free to fall back into that  _habit_ —and  Xander wished like  _hell_  he could remember when it started—of staring at Xander with absolute, mindless idolization.

 _That_  was what convinced him he needed someone else’s help.  The more Xander had tried to fix things himself, the more he saw that look.

“So, Angel,” he said desperately as they headed towards desert.  “What did you do all day?”  The food had been as excellent as Fred had claimed.  Both Angel and Spike had received large mugs with their meals—Angel’s plate half-filled compared to the rest of the diner’s—which were frequently refilled.  No one commented on it; they were all used to seeing a vampire eat his supper.

“Um?”  Deer-in-headlights was never a good look for Angel.  Xander wished that it was Spike who was snickering with him, not Gunn.  “Oh, we went hunting.”

“Hunting?”  Cordelia put down her spoon, pale green ices melting from it onto the plate.  “Angel, you didn’t tell me you were going  _hunting._   What exactly were you hunting  _for,_  hm?”

Eyes as brown as his own focused on the cursed vampire with a laser sharp glare.  Cordelia, too, had gone through significant changes since coming to L.A.  The ability to be a bitch, however, was something she’d  _never_  lose. 

“Ah. . .  nothing in particular?”

“Then  _why_  were you hunting?  I had cases you could have worked on, Angel.  You told me you needed time alone with Spike.  I said fine.  This did  _not_  mean you had permission to go _hunting_.  You don’t  _do_  that anymore.  Remember?”

“Wh—not hunting  _humans,_  Cordy,” Angel hastened to explain.  “Hunting, well, demons.  Information.  Anything.”

“I take it the hunt was unsuccessful?”

Angel clearly had no idea which answer was the correct one.  “Yes?”

Cordelia’s eyes narrowed, but as they darted over towards Spike, Xander was able to catch them.  She let out a frustrated groan but relented.  Her expression, however, meant that Xander was going to do some fast talking later.  “Did you get hurt?” she asked Angel instead of what she still very much  _wanted_  to ask.

She  _could_  hide her emotions.  She just didn’t feel like it.

“No,” Angel replied immediately, grateful to be back on firmer ground.  “I’m not hurt, Spike’s not hurt, everything’s fine.  I, well, wanted Spike to see the lay of the land down here in L.A.  He’s asked to help.”

Xander hoped no one else caught it.  That would make the problem instantly obvious to every person at the table, none of whom were unobservant or stupid.   _He_  caught it, but then, he’d been waiting for it.  The tightness in Angel’s jaw, the slight tensing of fists, all things that screamed  _not right._

The Spike they knew didn’t volunteer to help.  He grumbled about it, loudly and often..  He  _did_  whatever it was with a minimum of fuss, but once it was over, the grumbling came back.  That was the way the bleached-vampire operated, period.  As predictable as Willow babbling, Tara being shy, or Buffy being headstrong.  It made him who he was.

And Spike was giving Cordelia a slight nod to confirm Angel’s words, the first interaction with anyone other than Xander all evening.

Xander watched as his ex’s expression softened, although he doubted that Spike would understand that for what it was.  “So did you have fun?” she asked the vampire, totally ignoring Angel.  Angel blanched and swallowed; he knew what that meant.

Spike tensed and leaned a fraction harder against Xander.  Smiling a shy, small little smile, he nodded again and focused on his desert—blood ices.

Cordelia blinked, stunned.  Hiding it quickly, she turned a bright smile to Lorne.  “So, we’re going to Caritas after this, right?  I know Xander can’t sing for crap, but you make all first-timer’s sing, right?  Kinda like a virgin ritual?”

She was  _never_  going to forgive him for taking her to Rocky Horror Picture Show that one time.  They’d both been dubbed ‘virgin’ but with her stunning good looks, she’d been chosen for a lot more gags than he.  Xander grinned.  It had been one of their very few fun dates, one that fortunately none of their friends had any inkling about.

Lorne was giving them both a speculative look before finally nodding.  “Don’t see why not,” was all he said.

A cold hand latched onto the back of Xander’s sweater.

Xander closed his eyes and wished he could cry.

Finishing their meal, Angel and Lorne slipped off to say thanks to their host while the rest piled into various cars.  Cordelia, with her customary charm, convinced Spike that he just  _had_  to spend more time with Angel and the GTX so that she could have a minute and lust after Xander’s new convertible.  Okay?

“That wasn’t nice,” Xander commented neutrally as they headed out of the parking lot.  He’d been looking forward to having a moment alone with his boyfriend, dammit.

“I’m not nice.  I’m Cordelia.  I do nice only when I want something.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that.  “Don’t ever change, Cordy.”

“Don’t plan on it.  What I want to know is why Spike has.”

The air was chilly, despite it being L.A., and he wished he could see the stars.  He loved to look up at them, trying to make different shapes in the random patterns.  Instead, a thin edge of grey, visible even at night, hung around the edges of the sky and billowing clouds obscured the rest.

“Oh, come on, Xander.  I can see you’ve grown up from the geeky little boy I broke up with—”

“Nice of you to admit it.”

“Don’t interrupt me.”  She glared and he was fifteen again, and unable to make his mouth work correctly, against such ire.  “Look, Xander.  You’re a good guy.  I was an idiot who was too concerned with her image, but you knew that when you dated me.  I’m glad that you’ve found a life that makes you happy.  Hell, I’m glad you’re  _wealthy._   And don’t give me that look, Willow’s given me numbers.  My point, however, is you might be three years older and you might be totally different in some way from the geek-boy I dated, but you’re still Xander.  I still know  _you._   I don’t know Spike anymore.”

“Like you ever did?” was pulled from him, before he could catch it.  He put his hand up, forestalling whatever biting reply she had waiting.  “Sorry.  Habit.  I just meant, you weren’t there when he got chipped so I’m not sure how you qualify as. . . knowing him.”

Cordelia snorted, and Xander suddenly wished that she was still part of the Scooby gang at home.  The totally direct, unlady-like, often inelegant way of handling things was so _refreshing_.  Anya may have been just as blunt, but too often people were cringing with embarrassment and couldn’t hear what she was saying.

“Hello, do you think I’ve forgotten the hot-poker incident?  Angel, I will add, also waxed quite poetic when he first heard about you two getting together.  The comments were not complimentary.  Toward either of you.”  She sighed and watched lights flash by.  “True, I don’t know him as well as you do—make a biblical joke here, doughnut boy, and I’ll throw you out of your own car—but certain parts of him I’ve always understood.  Xander, he was helping me move  _boxes_  yesterday during your little chat with Angel.  He didn’t even ask, just saw me struggling with them and picked them up.  Helpful Spike?  Who hasn’t called me Princess once?  Something’s wrong and I want to know what.”

“Far be it from me to stand between you and whatever you want,” Xander quipped, hands tightening on the steering wheel.  “How long?”  When she just blinked, he gave a growl as good as Spike’s used to be.  “How long was he playing pack-mule?”

“A few hours.  He probably would have stayed there all day, but Wesley said he knew some new sparring techniques and—”

“Yeah, that part he told me about.”  Xander forced himself to relax.  “Did he say anything to you?  At all?”

She thought and abruptly looked sheepish.  “Not. . . not really, I think.  I was—I was babbling about you, and how much you’ve grown and—”

Cordelia’s voice faded as the rage hit him so hard that he was blinded by it.  It was only the fear that he’d get into an accident that made him able to blink it away.  Breathing deep, he got control of himself.  He’d just have to watch better, to make sure things like that didn’t happen again.  He wasn’t a servant, dammit.  Glancing at Cordelia found her staring fixedly at the dashboard, saying all the things he would have loved to hear, three years ago.  He laughed ruefully, making her glare at him. “Why, Cordy!  Are you blushing?”

She scoffed at that, and, mood lightened, they traded insults the rest of the way to Caritas.  They got lost only once, too, which Cordelia said was a record.  Xander liked Caritas the minute they stepped inside.  Lorne was handing him a drink, chatting lightly about the various renovations that had been done, mostly because Angel Investigations kept getting the place blown up.

“So, think you can get your gentleman-love up to the mic?”

Xander blinked, confused by the turn the conversation had taken from bewailing various lost items to karaoke.  The rest of the group was already seated around what was obviously ‘their table’, chatting and listening to something with purple skin murder an old Billy Joel tune.  “Huh?”

“Has tall dark and broody filled you in on what I do here?”  Lorne was leaning up against the bar, scanning the crowd and sipping something red and fruity smelling.  Xander tried to make his brain function again.  It really wasn’t any of the ‘demon’ characteristics—horns, skin color, eye color, that phased him.  It was the  _clothes_  that made him nervous.  Leisure suits died decades ago.  Why were people reviving them?

“Some kind of empath-de—um, guy.”

That earned him a small smile, before those red eyes went back to flickering over the audience.  “Close enough, puddin’.  I read auras, sense emotions, that kind of thing.  I get the clearest read when people sing, hence the kareoke nightclub, but when trouble’s afoot, I don’t need the tune to give me the specs.”

“Meaning you’ve been picking things up from me?”

“Xani-baby,  _you_  I didn’t need an aura read to figure out,” Lorne said, expressive face showing amusement and just a hint of sorrow.  “You’re worried about that skinny guy vamp you love so much, and honey, I don’t blame you.”

 _Click_ , the light went on.  “You’re picking things up from Spike.”  Not a question, because those eyes may have been red instead of blue or brown or green, but they spoke just like a human’s did.

“Yeah.  Pain and misery are only the beginnings of it.  Those two emotions are so bad, though, that I can’t get a lick on what else is hiding under them.  So, I was hoping you’d get him to sing for me tonight.”

Tapping on the bar surface, Xander turned in his seat to do his own bit of scanning.  Fred, sweet little Fred was snuggled against Spike, practically in his lap, an arm threaded through his and doing her damndest to get Spike into the conversation.  Spike was giving her a look like he had a live aardvark on his lap, when he wasn’t gazing longingly over towards Xander.

“Angel put you up to this?”

Lorne gave a short bark of a laugh.  “Angel-cakes is a bit dense, sometimes.  Wesley asked.”

The tapping got louder.  “I don’t want charity,” he started but Lorne waved him off.

“Relax, honey-bunch.  I’m the one who created this bar, remember?  I’m the Host, I listen to people destroy songs I dearly love to get a look into their heart of hearts.  I didn’t need Wes to ask.  All I need is  _you_  to convince him to get up there.”

Nodding, Xander pushed himself away from the bar and slid into the seat next to Spike.  Who immediately latched onto his hand under the table, holding so hard that it hurt.  Xander ignored the pain, not wanting to set the chip off accidentally.

“Angel,” Gunn was saying, “you  _ain’t_  singin’, man.  You make cats in heat sound good!”

The older vampire still looked offended, but conceded the point—which Xander was pretty sure had more to do with his arrival than with the belief that Gunn was right.  “Fine, fine, I won’t sing.  Never was the singer of the family, anyway.  Spike, m’boy.  Care to show off?”

If Xander hadn’t been reminding himself that no, Spike’s grip on his hand  _wasn’t_  hurting, the chip  _definitely_  would have gone off at Angel’s words.  He glared murder while Spike shrank in on himself.  Reaching around, he took Spike’s other hand and pried fingers straight,  rubbing against four bloody crescents dug into the palm.

“Please, Spike?” Fred added.  “Angel was tellin’ us about the four of ya’ll.  How you each had a special little something’.  Not so clear on what Darla’s was,” which earned Angel a glare from his co-workers, “but Angel used t’draw, and Drusilla would have those weird visions of hers, and you, you’d sing.”

“Yes,” Wesley chimed in.  “There is evidence in several of the chronicles that you  _did_  sing, although—”

He coughed as Cordelia elbowed him, hard.  “What Wes means,” she said with a bright smile, “is that Angel might be lying through his sharp, pointy teeth.  He always complained you were a  _bad_  singer, after all.”

“Hey!” Xander said, in defense of his boyfriend, glaring at Angel after giving Cordelia a grateful wink.  “I’ll have you know Spike sings very well.  Don’t you, Spike?”  He made puppy-dog eyes at Spike.  “Please, Spike?  Prove that lying grand-sire of yours wrong?”

It was low, dirty, and it made Xander feel sick inside, but the puppy-dog eyes worked, just like they always did.  With a small sigh and a nervous glance around the club, Spike rose and made his way to where Lorne was waiting.  Xander went with him—he’d lose his arm, if he didn’t.

Lorne silently handed over several pages of song lists, his attention seemingly on the current singer.  Spike rifled through them, darting glances up towards Xander the whole time.  Trying not to sigh, Xander pulled his boyfriend into his arms so he could look over a duster-clad shoulder.

“Oh, hey, you love that song,” Xander said, pointing towards one of the few punk songs on the list.  Surprisingly, Spike shook his head.  “Okay.  What do you want to sing, tonight?”  He knew Spike could sing.  At first it was just absent humming while Spike did mundane things like laundry or the dishes, but after a few months Xander had finally persuaded his then-boyfriend to actually sing a full song.

Spike had no compunction about singing after the reaction it produced in Xander.  He just had to make sure Xander’s calendar was clear—it’d taken three days before they’d ventured out of the apartment, that first time.

That was for him—them—however, not something he shared with anybody else.  Dawn, he was pretty sure Spike had sung lullabies for; but that was it.  Not even Willow knew Spike could sing.

Finally a black-nailed finger rested against a song that Xander hadn’t ever heard of.  This was good.  If Xander hadn’t heard of it, then Spike wasn’t picking it simply because Xander liked it.

Lorne made no introduction—just dimmed the lights as soon as Xander was seated and bullied Spike onto the stage.  Deep, mournful, melodic rock filtered through the speakers, bringing a hush to the audience.

 _Well I wonder do we learn_   


_Seems we're making the same wrong turn_   


_Call you sacred_   


_Call you obscene_   


_Call you faithless_   


_Call you anything_   


_Call and you listen_   


_Listen. . ._

Watching Spike stand there, looking like a rock-star with that molten voice spreading through the room, Xander could take himself back to the night Spike had first sung to him,  _for_  him.  He could feel himself harden, grateful for the table that covered him.  He remembered the look that had burned in Spike’s eyes that first night as he poured the soul he supposedly didn’t have into words that echoed in Xander’s.

Tonight, Spike’s eyes were closed.

 _I'm a liar so it seems_   


_My desire could justify anything_   


_So is there nothing that lies in between_   


_This cold silence and a scream_

Whole body pulsing to the rhythm of the deceptively strong guitar, Spike swayed as he sang, shirt refracting the light until it dazzled.  He looked like a god, up there.  He looked like Spike was supposed to look.

 _Caught in the headlights_   


_We are frozen_   
_Can not hide_   
_There's no break_   
_There is no time_   
_If you can I might listen_   


_Call and you listen_   
_Listen_   
_Listen_   
_Listen!_

For one second, for one, brief second, as Spike wailed out the last heartbreaking line, his eyes opened.  Glittering blue searched and held dark brown and, for that one moment, all was right in the world.


	5. Chapter 5

Spike had his head propped up on the car-door, watching as the world flashed by.  He looked casual, with that bored quietness that usually meant trouble—or it had so long ago.  Now it just looked like introspective brooding.  He was all angles and sharp, cold colors in the moonlight, looking distant and hard.

Beside him, radiating warmth and a self confidence that was still disconcerting, Xander drove them home.  He was in warmer colors than Spike, his look more textured and without the hard or brittle edges that Spike seemed to thrive on.

Their hands were clasped between them.

They made a pretty picture, Angel mused.  He  _knew_  Cordelia had seen it because she’d mentioned it with a wistfulness Angel hadn’t been prepared for, but she’d been equally surprised when Angel agreed.  He didn’t know why—he’d always liked pretty things.  Hadn’t she  _seen_  the kinds of people he surrounded himself with?  Say what you want about his various relationships but they were all with incredibly gorgeous creatures.  Insane, murderous, and psychotic, yeah, but still delicately beautiful.

And Spike. . .

Angel refused to even  _think_  that the other vampire was broken.  Because he wasn’t.  Couldn’t be.  Spike would be fine.

“Anything you want to do tomorrow?” Xander asked Spike quietly, interrupting Angel’s own brooding.  That was another surprise.  The loud, brash boy who lived to make others laugh, had leaned how to be quiet?  An apocalypse was coming.  Or maybe the sun was green.

Spike shook his head without saying a word but he must have done  _some_ thing, because Xander sighed and began tapping the steering wheel.  “Come on, there’s gotta be something in LA you want to do, right?  A museum, or something?  How about a club, I know there are some good cover bands you like based here.  We could see when they’re playing?”

No response, but Angel was pretty sure Xander didn’t expect one.

“Do you want to help me again?” Angel asked, grinning when Xander nearly started out of his skin.  They rolled to halt at a red light which gave Xander time to turn around and stare wooden stakes at Angel.

Angel blinked.   _That_  was certainly more familiar, although previously it was because Angel had Buffy’s love and attention, things Xander would never have.  This, however, wasn’t jealousy or the macho pissing contests the boy sometimes indulged in.  There was real menace in those snapping black eyes that startled the elder vampire.  Xander was seriously angry.

Like usual, Angel had no idea why.

“Or, you know, maybe a club sounds good?” he babbled, desperately trying to fix whatever he’d done wrong.  He thought back over the evening, trying to figure out what would have made Xander as dangerously angry as he was now.  It was about Spike, of course, but what exactly. . .?  “Um, maybe I could come, too?  I know Cordelia would like that.  Except there are cases I should be working on.  She’ll yell if I don’t.”

“Yeah.  Cordy’s good at yelling.”  Unstated threat under the casual tone, and Angel was struck again by just how grown up the boy behind the wheel was; that and the totally familiar feeling of being unable to keep up with the conversation.  Back in Sunnydale, he’d played casual arrogance rather than just admit that he had no idea what the teens were babbling about and, most of the time, they were babbling too  _fast_  for him to try and get a clue.

He wondered if they realized there was a correlation between their quick, fragmented speech patterns and his need to be aloof and cryptic.  There  _was_  one, although he’d only realized it after spending time with Fred and forcing himself to smile and look interested.

“Yeah, she is,” Angel agreed.  “She’s probably going to yell at you later.”  He made himself look guileless when another look was shot at him, although  _this_  time it was from Spike.  It was a furtive, quick look—which was not what Angel was used to from the brash, younger vampire—clearly saying * _don’t mess with mine*._   Angel blinked and tried to quell the sudden flash of hope.  That look may not have had any of the ‘old’ Spike’s usual characteristics but it was closer than anything else Angel had seen in the past two days.

He suddenly realized that he was waiting for the comment he could practically hear through the sound of the engine.  The snappy, sarcastic, witty comment that Spike always made at times like this; the rejoinder that told his audience just how little he thought of them and how much more important Spike himself was.

Angel was surprised to realize he missed the banter.

Xander was chuckling, oblivious to Spike or Angel’s reaction.  “I  _dated_  Cordelia.  She doesn’t worry me anymore.  Scare me, yes,” he added hastily.  “But if she wants to yell at me, let her.  I’ll yell back.”  He was rubbing his thumb along the back of Spike’s hand, an unconscious gesture that Spike pressed into.  It was only the presence in the backseat that prevent Spike from borrowing against his human, the way he clearly wanted to do.

That was part of the reason Angel had let Cordelia borrow his car.

Beside him, Fred mumbled in her sleep and started upright.  “Oh!” she said, blushing and shrinking back down.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, well, crash like that.  It’s just been a busy day, y’know?”

This time Spike’s grin was warm and welcoming as he nodded encouragingly at her.  Spike was obviously taken with the shy girl, regaining some of his old demonstrative behavior around her.  When Angel had raised quiet concerns, Xander had waved him off, saying that he’d expected this.  Spike liked taking care of things and she was someone who needed that care.

Angel had bitten his own lip to prevent himself from shouting.

It wasn’t Xander’s fault.  Well, no,  _some_  of it was Xander’s fault, but it’s not like Xander knew that when he did it.  Xander loved, and  _respected,_  Spike; that was totally clear.

Angel just hoped that Spike really did love Xander in return.

Lorne had spoken briefly with Spike after the stunning performance but neither would tell anyone else what the message had been.  That didn’t surprise Angel.  It still bothered him.

Spike was just. . . Spike was  _his_. 

For all the books on vampires, from fiction to works written by authors who were in a position to have more accurate information, not much was really know about relationships between vampires.  Most humans couldn’t  _understand_  the relationships and Angel dreaded the conversation he owed Xander about it.  Xander had to know, despite Angel’s limited skills at exposition. . .

The problem was that there were a lot of complicated, almost labyrinthine, traditions—more like instincts—that every vampire followed.   _Every_  vampire.  It wasn’t a conscious decision, it was part and parcel with the demon.  You could fight it if you were strong enough but certain relationships and ideals remained no matter how hard you fought.

Angel knew that.  He was currently battling one fierce tradition, one he never thought would affect him this strongly.

Spike wasn’t looking to Angel to help him.  He wasn’t looking to  _Angel_ , at all.  He needed and wanted and doted on someone else and tolerated Angel only because he had to. 

The part of the souled-vampire that still remembered drinking deep of hot, rich blood howled in rage at the defiance.  It howled at the betrayal and at the interloper who should never have interfered with the affairs of vampires.  It should have been  _him_  Spike looked to, not the pathetic excuse of a. . .

No.  That was wrong.  It shouldn’t have been him, not anymore, and Xander. . .

Angel struggled with himself for the rest of the ride.

At the hotel, he didn’t argue when Xander ushered everyone to their rooms with the weary skill of someone who’d done this  _many_  times before.  Given that Xander and Spike had become Dawn’s primary care givers over the past summer, Angel wasn’t surprised.  Teenagers didn’t like being told to go to sleep.

Sliding on silk sleep-shorts, Angel got under the covers and stared at the ceiling.  How  _was_  Xander going to take this?  Spike had always told tradition and ritual to sod off.  How was he going to reconcile the walking contradiction of prior behavior with current?  It was tradition, yes, but it was tradition demons knew within minutes of the first waking, tradition that was so ingrained, so complete that it was more like instinct.  Being a rebel was irrelevant to this kind of pressure.

More importantly, he doubted Spike was actually  _conscious_  of what he was doing.  It had been so gradual that Spike probably thought this was normal behavior.  Even for  _him._

Worry and fear kept Angel up the rest of the night, even though he now kept partially human hours and normally went to sleep around two in the morning; unless there was a case and then he usually didn’t sleep at all.  Tossing and turning, he wracked his mind for a way to explain something that  _had_  no explanation, not in mortal terms.  Lost in his musings he drifted towards sleep, grumpily waking periodically to roll over and brood a bit more, before sinking. . .

The dip of additional weight on the bed woke him completely.

Angel kept himself as still as only a dead body could be, ignoring the fear that settled in his belly.  It was just past dawn, the sun barely cresting the horizon—the time when all good little vampires should be snug in their crypts, hidden away from the deadly oncoming light.  Vampires slept deepest and heaviest during this time, their bodies telling them that no, they should _stop_  raping and pillaging because nature was about to provide the humans with very handy weapons. . .

His covers were eased off and his silk shorts slid down his thighs.  Angel spared a moment to wonder if he was grateful—or not—that vampires had neither breath, blood, nor scent to alert others to their wakefulness. . .

It took  _supreme_  effort not to twitch when skilled hands picked up his flaccid cock and placed it in an equally skilled mouth.

Lips slid their way down to the base, and suction was applied so fiercely that Angel was afraid that it might just get sucked off.  Throat muscles squeezed and wasn’t it a  _good_  thing, not having to breathe?  Then those soft lips were moving back up, that tongue tracing the vein that did its best to throb appreciatively.

Angel tried to keep his body motionless, but when his sac was cupped and fondled he was pretty sure he gasped.  Borrowed blood filled his cock so quickly he hurt, the way he used to,  back before he met Buffy.  Or even after he met Buffy.  Thoughts, disjointed and twisted, meandered and he wondered why everyone thought celibacy would be so hard.  He’d done it before, after all; for a hundred years he’d done it.

Then again, he’d also jacked off when the pain got worse than the guilt.  Which was often.

The mouth slipped off, a hand stroking while that mouth moved to lick along his perineum and then suck at his balls.  The hand continued to pump him, up and down, and up and down, and sweep precum off the tip, spreading it back down. . .

He jerked when blunt teeth nipped his thigh.  Staring mindlessly at the ceiling, he gave up pretending to be asleep and buried his hands in soft hair.  No one could sleep through  _this_ , not even a vampire.  The mouth returned to his purpling cock, bobbing in oh, so familiar, patterns which still had their desired reaction as Angel felt his balls rise up and tighten.

Lips pulled back, sucking on the head, tonguing the underside in a way that made Angel whimper.  He dazedly recognized a finger slipping inside and finding—

“AAAAH!”

His orgasm was so ferocious it was painful.  He bit his own wrist, sucking desperately at the blood, only partially in an attempt to muffle his screams.  The mouth on his cock took everything he had to offer, hands stroking him while he jerked, massaging his balls to make sure they were empty for the first time since. . .

Since Darla.

Understanding warred with orgasmic lassitude and he struggled to stay awake.  He was redressed and recovered before he regained the ability to speak.  “Wait.”

The silent figure at the door paused, its back towards the bed.  Angel pushed himself up on his elbows, shifting to see through the gloom.  Shoulders were slumped dejectedly, a head hanging low between them, the entire posture shouting from unrelieved tension.

What the hell was he going to say?  “Thank you?” he offered, cursing what Cordelia called his ‘woodenness’.  He didn’t care what it was called but unless something needed lifting or killing he was pretty much useless.

A brief nod, but the figure stayed where it was.

Angel felt his gut completely ice over, for the first time realizing just how  _bad_  it was.  He thought back to Xander’s inexplicable anger, and felt the ice grow colder still.  “You didn’t have to do that.  Not—I don’t mean because of the soul.  That isn’t a problem.  I mean, it was  _fantastic_ , but—but not—”  Not true happiness.  Which had nothing to do with the person, but— “Does Xander know?”

“No.”

And Spike went back to bed

* * *

Angel eventually went downstairs just to quiet the voices in his mind.

Initially, he’d been absolutely stunned at Spike’s behavior, but the blow-job worked its magic and sleep overtook him.  Waking around one, he’d paced and brooded, trying to decide the best course of action.  Or maybe that was the least hurtful course of action?  He didn’t know.

That was the problem.

Waving a good morning to Fred, he found a mug of heated blood already on his desk.  He took a sip as he riffled through his case—“Cordelia!”

She appeared at his doorway in an instant, smirk telling him she knew what was going on.  “Yes, Angel?”

“This is human.”  He drank human blood very, very rarely.  Aside from the whole penance-atonement complex, there was the simple fact that it made his coworkers smell like  _food._   Given the likelihood of his going insane, or an appearance by his worser-half, this was a bad thing.

“I know.  Xander had a bunch delivered this morning.  Seems Spike told him that you were hoofing it too much, and you’d get sick if you didn’t drink it more often.”

Wasn’t it interesting how rage, guilt, worry, shame and fear could be felt all at once?

Cordelia fixed her normal forthright glare on Angel and the various emotions disappeared into plain old normal Cordelia’s-going-to-kill-me fear.  “If you needed to drink human blood, Angel, why weren’t you drinking human blood?”

Angel sighed and explained his reasons.  Cordelia sniffed in response.  “That’s stupid, Angel.”

“Do you eat dogs or cats?”

“Ew!  No, of course—oh.  I get it.  But Angel, you  _need_  this.  If I had to eat dogs or cats—and ew, thanks for the mental images—to survive, I would.”  She sighed and relaxed against the doorjamb.  Her expression made her look older.  “I get why you don’t want to do this, Angel, but you have to.  Spike’s worried about you, Xander said.  Oh, he also said, and I quote, ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’  Whatever that meant.  Not that I don’t agree with the sentiment.”  The return of the glare, but it lacked her usual fire.

Angel felt the obscure need to swear.  He rarely did so—not when he had been human and not once he had been turned.  It was just. . . too crass.  Too gauche.  As a human, he’d been wealthy and educated despite his desire to be the town wastrel and it had just seemed too much of an effort to have to speak like his friends—even though he  _acted_  like them.  Darla had never appreciated a foul mouth—unless he was using it on her—and once he’d had a soul he’d never wanted to vent like that, preferring to turn the problem inward.

Now he wanted to curse like William had, when he’d first become Spike.

Anger burned, obscuring the sight of Cordelia giving him a sad look and closing the door behind her.  He wanted to give into the hate that suffused him but he knew it was irrational of him—and more importantly, unfair.  What was the boy going to do?  What choices did Xander have, and were those options going to actually help Spike?  No.  In all probability, it would only end up hurting the damaged vampire.  So he did nothing.

And Angel had no doubt that Xander hated him for the helplessness.

“I’m not good with words,” he told his empty office, frustrated and angry at the frustration.  Killing, he could do.  Drawing, when he wanted to be softer, subtler.  But words?  That was William’s forte, always had been; in song, in speech, in the ability to put thoughts coherently on paper, that had always been William.

“I am not jealous,” he added as he picked up his empty mug.  Empty?  He must have been craving human blood badly to drink that down without even realizing it.

Which only proved Spike’s point.

Growling, Angel stomped out into the lobby.  “Where are they?” he snapped at Wesley, who was sitting at Cordy’s usual desk.

“Xander and Spike?  I believe Xander mentioned something about surprising Spike this morning.  They’ve been gone for several hours.”  The look Wes gave him added a silent ‘and you should have known that’ reproach.

“Oh.  Um.  Where’s Cordelia?”  Hadn’t she been here a moment ago?

“She had an appointment, Angel, remember?  She left twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh, heh, right,” he stuttered out.

“You’ve been brooding, again.”  The ‘I’m-a-dork’ feeling, stolen from meetings held in a possessed library, fled under the calm accusation.  “About Spike?  Or Xander?”

The mild, neutral way the questions were asked made Angel uncomfortable.  “Look, it’s kind of—”

“Complicated?  Yes, I gathered.”

“Where’s Gunn?” Angel hedged, frantically.  “Or Fred?”

“We had a call.  The Lumurian clan-leader is in town and his devotees wished to prepare accordingly.  As they can’t decipher the proportions set down in their texts, I thought Fred would be of great assistance.”

“Proportions?”

“Decorations.  Non-fatal decorations.”  That infuriatingly English smile—tiny and condescendingly amused—did nothing to decrease Angel’s fear.  Or his growing irritation that everyone he knew was part of some conspiracy to annoy him.  Which was probably  _true_ , given Cordelia.  “They aren’t sure how to convert them to the space they have picked out and Fred can probably be of assistance based on the sketches they have.  She’s skilled enough not to need to actually look at their texts.”

Good, since Angel was certain Fred didn’t know a thing about the Lumurian language or how to read it.  Wesley might but numbers weren’t his strong suit.  “And Gunn?”

Wesley gave him another  _look_ , and Angel was grateful vampires couldn’t blush.  They’d had enough problems to know that you never went by yourself if you could avoid it.  You always had a partner, even if it was just to provide muscle or the illusion of authority.

Right, try to be casual.  “So how come you didn’t go?”  Against his better judgement, Angel found himself at the refrigerator, opening another pack of human blood for himself.  “I’m sure _you_  read Lumurian.”

“Indeed.  However, I felt Gunn would be more appropriate.”  Meaning they were still trying to get Fred to stand up for herself and take a little control.  Gunn had nothing to take control _of_  in a case like this, unless it turned dangerous, so that meant Fred would have to.  “That, and I wished to speak with you.”

Angel gulped his blood to prevent himself from cursing.  “Really?” he asked as normally he could, returning to the desk.  Wesley just looked at him.  Sighing, Angel pulled out the other chair and sat down.  “Right.  You want to talk to me.”

“Yes, about Xander.”

Blink.  “Xander?  There’s nothing wrong with Xander.”

“Really?  Then he, of course, had no problems with giving up his chance to go somewhere relatively demon-free with his boyfriend and come here, to see a vampire he has previously gone to great lengths to prove he dislikes.”

Blink.  Angel buried his face in his hands.  “I hate you,” he mumbled into his palms.

Wesley merely smiled, a response Angel didn’t need to see to know it was there, and relaxed against Cordelia’s super-deluxe-support-chair that she’d made Angel buy to try and help deal with the headaches.  “Xander’s quite angry with you and I think the actions that bothered him have a great deal to do with the reason Spike is as. . . quiet. . . as he is.”

“Nice cover-up.”

“I do try to please.  My point, however, is that it’s time for you to start explaining what’s happening, Angel.  And you need to be aware of  _your_  actions more, as well.  Didn’t you notice when you called Spike ‘boy’?”

 _Shoulders hunching, a hint of blank nothingness in normally animated features and the sweet, sharp scent of blood.  Spike’s blood.  The hate in Xander’s eyes when they met Angel’s._

“Fuck.”  Good word, that.  Nice and guttural.  “No, I didn’t.  But I remember it now.  Fuck.”  Maybe he should start swearing more often?

“Quite.”  Wesley typed a few things on the keyboard, waiting for Angel to reorganize his thoughts.

“You’re right.  I did it, and I didn’t even realize it.  And Spike reacted to it.”

“Well, then.”  A notepad and pen appeared out of no where and Wesley leaned forward a bit.  “Perhaps you should attempt to explain this to me, first?  I’m more than happy to act as a sounding board and I believe I may be useful in translating some of the more. . . complicated. . . aspects into something Xander can understand.”

Angel knew he sucked at words.  Wesley didn’t—and there was no hint that any of this was going to end up in some Watcher’s chronicle.  Just concern, the fundamental desire to help and the characteristic curiosity that made Wes so good at what he did.  “Right.  It all comes down to control.”


	6. Chapter 6

Xander tried not to laugh hysterically, but it was hard.  Very hard.  Spike gave him a narrow-eyed look of annoyance, plainly saying that if Xander made so much as one  _peep_  he was a dead human.

Which, of course, in no way made him want to laugh harder.  Really it didn’t.

Forcing himself to calm down, Xander made shooing motions and pointedly turned to look at the brightly lit stage not so many rows down.  After a moment he sensed Spike do the same and decided to give it another minute.

Once the minute was up, Xander moved his head very slowly and carefully until he still  _appeared_  to watch the play—but was actually watching something far more enjoyable: Spike.  The play was good, definitely, and he  _had_  wanted to see it even after Spike’s secret obsession had manifested itself.  However, pounding rhythms and rainbow costumes just couldn’t compare to the figure next to him.

Spike was  _happy._

Childishly happy, with an innocence that no one who knew the vampire would believe.  Spike was whispering along to the familiar songs and if it weren’t for the fact that they were in a crowded theater he’d be singing aloud.  His head moved to the driving beat.  Whenever the singing stopped for dialogue and plot, blue eyes flashed as they darted between characters, often widening like a child’s, intent on not missing a single twitch.

It had taken a lot to  _get_  the vampire here but Xander congratulated himself on a job well done.

He’d known, of course, the moment the cool presence slipped from the bed.  Part of him had been expecting it—although he hadn’t realized that until it happened.  He hadn’t followed his boyfriend.  Xander had known where Spike was going and even guessed at part of the reason why.  As he’d had to remind Angel that morning, he  _wasn’t_  stupid.  He hadn’t spent six years as a Scooby to be afraid of research, and having a vampiric lover meant that books had the best—sometimes  _only_ —explanations.  After all, it wasn’t like he could go out with the girls and dish over lattes.

Even  _after_  Buffy came back.

He knew what had happened.  More, he knew how much Spike had felt forced into  _doing_  it.  Xander knew his boyfriend had returned as soft as he’d left—and knew him well enough to know that he  _hadn’t_  gotten off in Angel’s room and then attempted to clean it up.  The fetal position and silent, shaking tears hadn’t engendered a feeling of jealousy towards the older vampire—if anything, it deepened his rage.

Lying there in the dark, curling his warmth around his sobbing boyfriend, Xander had cursed himself for ever coming here.  Not even on the really bad days in Sunnydale was Spike as silent and despairing as he’d been ever since he’d seen his Sire.

So, no more.  No more waiting for Angel to have a magical fix-it, or for Spike to suddenly tell Xander what was happening.  Time for Xander to do what he’d been  _planning_  on doing, ever since he’d realized how bad the problem was getting.

That morning, he’d spent an hour or two on Cordelia’s computer arranging things, before poking his lover awake.  Spike had been nervous and wary upon waking; the humiliation, shame, and fear a palpable shroud around him.  Xander had pulled him into the shower, washing away the pain, whispering constant reassurances.  Spike didn’t have anything to fear—Xander wasn’t jealous.  He  _was_  furious at the whole situation and Angel in particular but. . . Spike came back to  _him._   Spike wanted to be with  _him._

And Xander was going to do everything in his power to make sure Spike understood that he knew that and appreciated it.

Waving goodbye to Cordelia, Xander had led his boyfriend into the smoggy, cloud-covered day—possibly the  _only_  thing L.A. had going for it was its vampire-safe days—and to the stores he knew Spike would never have voluntarily taken him to.

Spike had gaped at the sight of Xander in tight leather pants, chosen for the abstract design picked out in gold studs, before hurriedly shoving himself into his matching silver-studded pair.

The sight of the two of them together had earned Xander a blink and a twitch.

By the time they’d left the first shop, they’d purchased three bags full of pants, shirts, and all kinds of accessories—including fake nipple rings that had Xander squirming just at the thought.  Also something called the ‘Gates of Hell’, whatever that meant, which the grinning sales clerk had added for free.  Xander was pretty sure that he was supposed to use it on Spike—which meant, provided it wouldn’t earn him a chip jolt, it was going to be used on Xander instead. 

By then Spike was slowly working through his shock and beginning to smile—a little.

More stores were visited; the polluted skies above retained their cloud cover so that with a little effort and some care, Spike was as mobile as any mortal.  They went to goth and punk clothing stores, record stores that had non-mainstream music, the kind you couldn’t get outside of L.A., a tattoo parlor and piercing booth, anything Xander thought Spike would enjoy.  Which, despite the occasional sideways glances, Spike finally did.

Around six, they’d grabbed a quick bite, Xander promising more later.  Then he’d bullied Spike into the punk finery they’d just bought: tight leather pants, slinky tight shirts, makeup, studs in the ears, the whole works.  Spike applied a fake tattoo of a stake to himself, and Xander was persuaded into a belly button ring—Spike had wanted the nipple rings, but Xander was firm; there was  _no way_  he was going to where  _those_  to their next stop.  Not with a shirt tight enough that they were extremely visible.

They looked stunning together.  Xander knew they did, making sure to use his specially witched camera to take a few snaps of a happy, gorgeous Spike—and of the punk-Xander who was probably  _never_  going to return after the day was over.

Their arrival in the crowded theater had been—interesting, to say the least.  At first, Spike had been thoroughly shocked, squirming under the scrutiny of families with young children and couples dressed up for a romantic night on the town.  While dress codes had relaxed to the point where there were people there in jeans and t-shirts, no one had expected the gay, punk couple to stroll casually inside a Broadway-caliber theater.

Then Spike had realized what the play was.

He’d blinked, standing totally still in the middle of the lobby, before turning to stare at Xander for a long, tense moment.  Then he’d grinned.  A real, smirking Spike-grin.  The kind that was smug bad-ass on the outside and melting boyfriend on the inside.

Xander had been forced to find some kind of cover, immediately—tight leather pants offered no protection at all.

After that Spike had started acting like. . . well, not  _Spike_ , the vampire that his friends knew.  This was a punked-out version of the kids that ran around them, complete with wide eyes and constant bouncing.  It  _was_  a Spike that Xander knew and recognized and if he ignored the hints of hesitancy and nervousness that lurked around the edges, it was almost like he had _his_  Spike—the real Spike—back.

Granted, he’d had to swear that people would hear about the adventures of Xander the Fabulous Ladies Night Club Stripper before they would find out that Xander had taken them to see a musical.  It was worth it.  It was all worth it: the look, the show, the whispered words to songs Spike would swear he’d never heard before; the hints of the Spike he’d fallen in love with, the healthy, happy Spike he craved.

A cool touch made him glance down, pleasantly surprised to realize that Spike had taken his hand.  The hand squeezed his.  Looking up he saw the shy smile that was reserved for him and him alone. “S’over,” Spike explained, waving at the bright lights and the milling, chattering people.  The voice was a little too quiet, the words a little too hesitant, but Xander wasn’t going to argue.  He’d take what he could get and count it as a major victory.  “You see any of it?”

“I watched!  I did!  Some of it. . . oh, c’mon, Spike, we have the movie at home.”

“The play is  _different,”_  Spike insisted, earning a surprised glance from a woman herding several young children to the gift shop.  “Different songs,  _not_  by Elton John, praise whoever, and the dances are so much better. . . this one isn’t a bloody cartoon, Xan.”

Xander coughed, trying hard not to talk and laugh at the same time; that never went well.  “I know, Spike.”  The poor woman was having an embolism watching them.  Two decked out punks, obviously a couple with clasped hands and bodies leaning towards each other, discussing the merits of a Broadway musical based on a Disney film.  Her children were just fascinated, period.

“I know, Spike, I know.  Hungry?  There’s an Ethiopian place near here that’s supposed to be good.”

“Yeah.  Cooler’s in the trunk?”

“Of course,” Xander glared, making himself look offended.  He wasn’t.  Spike was having a normal conversation with him, actively involved instead of waiting for Xander to tell him what to do. 

If all it took was the removal of all things familiar—both from Sunnydale and L.A.—he was going to pack them up that night and get a hotel.  They’d probably stay in L.A., since it was easier for the vampire to get around during the day and there were still plenty of things for them to do and because he owed Cordelia a day with just the two of them. . . but they’d be out.  Out of the Hyperion, out of the supernatural save-the-world deal, and away from Angel.

“Xan?  Have you ever  _had_  Ethiopian food?”

“No?  How bad could it be?”

Spike just chuckled.

It turned out to be not bad at all.  The injera—flat bread—was filling and Spike made them get  _incredibly_  spicy lamb—but that was good, too.  “God, I wish they had places like this in Sunnydale!” Xander moaned as he paid.

“Burger-burns only go so far,” Spike agreed, attempting his usual sardonic attitude.  He was  _almost_  there.  “And if we eat at that international whatever house again I’m going to turn  _you_ into pancakes.”

Xander smirked back, pleased to hear the attempt.  It was a step closer to having the real Spike back again.  He opened his mouth to suggest a venue a little more appropriate to their outfits when the phone rang.

Xander pulled it out and both of them glared at it with such similar distaste and annoyance that they could have been mirror images.  “I should break it.”

“Can’t break it, luv.  Watcher paid for it.”

“I can still break it.  And he did not pay for it.  He paid for  _yours_ , or at least he did for a while.  Once he realized I make almost as much as he does he made  _me_  pay for it.”

“Still can’t break it.  Look, that’s Cordelia.  Could be something’s up.”

“Yes, but that means fighting and bruising and I look  _good_ , dammit.  So do you.  I wanted to go show off.”  Xander pouted, even as he led them back to the car.  This kind of conversation was  _not_  one that you wanted to have in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

“We can always go out later.  Er, or tomorrow, if it’s too late.  And you don’t get hurt.”  The diffident voice turned diamond hard on the last phrase, making Xander stumble in surprise.  Spike stared at the cracked pavement but his jaw was clenched, his hands fisted, and Xander knew that his eyes would be steely grey.

That. . . was weird.  Not Spike being concerned for him, that he knew.  Given the vampire was damned near indestructible and Xander  _wasn’t_ , it was a constant problem for them.  But that was why Xander had been taught at least the basics of fighting and, more importantly, when to recognize he was over his head and needed a professional.  He was backup only, and he was content with that.

“Well, it’s not like I  _like_  getting beaten to a pulp,” he joked, trying desperately to lighten the mood.  “Bloody Xander is not a pretty Xander and I like being pretty.”

He snuck a kiss, unsurprised when Spike didn’t respond.  Xander gave him a worried look and slid into his side of the car.  The phone had been ringing continuously in the background, a high pitched whine that put them both on edge.

Xander seethed, thinking dark thoughts about certain former Sunnydale residents.  Popping open the phone, he rested one hand on the steering wheel.  Spike had actually started relaxing and acting  _normal_ , dammit.  He didn’t need this.  Not now.

“You demanded?”

“Ah, Xander.  I’m glad I caught you.”

Apparently, all British people had the talent to be incredibly rude despite sounding polite.  “You caught us.  We were about to go out.  Who needs rescuing now?”

“Angel has requested backup.  Cordelia’s vision indicated a rather large convergence of a hive-like species whose sting is deadly to humans.  As it doesn’t affect vampires much, it makes sense for the two of them to go.”

The understated, almost paternal attitude made Xander wonder—again—just what Angel had done to put Wesley in charge of the organization.  “All right.  Give me directions and we’ll go.”

“Xander. . . It might be better if you did not.”

Xander froze, mentally cursing vampiric hearing, Wesley, and his decision to ever come here.  He should have gone to New York like he’d originally planned.  They could have played the nattering tourists, hit all the spots he knew Spike missed and had a grand old time spending lots of money.  Nothing to worry about except him, Spike, and his credit card.  But no.  He had to come here.  Where Angel and daily battles against slimy creatures that wanted to eat him were the norm.

Sometimes he was monumentally stupid.

At Wesley’s quiet, infuriatingly British warning, Spike had turned to stone.

Sighing, Xander turned on the engine.  “Fine.”  The bite in his voice promised retribution.  Quite a bit of it.  “Where am I dropping him?  And this stuff doesn’t hurt vampires, right?”

“We’ve determined that the poison makes them itch a bit, but nothing more serious than that.  Calamine lotion will be sufficient, should they be stung.  Thank you, Xander.  I do appreciate this.  It’s been some time since Angel has had backup that is. . . equal in abilities.”

Xander figured laughing would be a bad thing.  Wesley certainly wouldn’t appreciate it and the dry, bitter tone would only worry Spike more.  “Yeah.  Right.”  He missed the good mood he’d been in all of ten minutes ago.  He missed the smiling, almost  _normal_ , cheerful Spike.

Damn Angel.  Damn Wesley.  Damn all of frigging L.A.

The trip to the other side of town was spent in silence, neither party willing to communicate through the black cloud that hung over them.  When Xander pulled to a stop outside a dirty looking abandoned building—an old school?—he half turned in his seat to look directly at his boyfriend.  “You okay to move in those clothes?  They’re tight.  No, wait, we put the clothes underneath the seat, you’ll use those, right?”

“M’fine.”

“Want me to take the piercings out?  They could get caught.”

Spike was looking at the building intently.  “Don’t worry about it.”

Xander practically snarled.  “What the hell do you  _mean_  don’t—”

“Are you mad at me?”

Blinking, Xander pulled back his rage.  This wasn’t snarky-Spike baiting him.  There was real fear in that question, a deep-seated terror that froze Xander’s insides.  The same kind of terror that had poured out of Dawn when they had run from Glory. . . the terror that said the sky was falling and nothing was going to be able to put it up again. . .

His anger vanished.  “No.  I’m not angry.”

“You’re tapping.  Always do that when you’re angry.”  Xander looked down to see he was indeed tapping on the steering wheel.

Forcing his hands to still, he took a deep breath.  “Come here.”

“Can’t.  Angel needs backup and—”

“Come.  Here.”

Hand poised on the door handle, Spike shuddered to a halt.  Slowly, very slowly, he slid across the seat, leaning hesitantly towards the man he should  _never_  feel hesitant towards.  Xander forced down his returning rage, taking the vampire in his arms and holding him tightly.

“I’m terrified,” he whispered into ice blond hair.  Spike gradually relaxed into his embrace, unable to stay tense when bathed in vibrating warmth—once, very early in their relationship, he’d told Xander that nothing relaxed him more.  “I’m afraid for you, and I’m thinking that if I was there, I might be able to do something.  Anything.  To keep you safe.”

“Not supposed to keep me safe,” was the whispered reply.  “S’my job.  I’m the bloody vampire.”

He hadn’t heard a single ‘bloody’, ‘buggering’, ‘sodding’ or ‘bollocks’ since the night of their arrival.  The lack made this utterance all the more significant.  “Why?  Cause you’re the vampire?  Not hardly, Fangless.  I know you want me out of there so I don’t get hurt.  I’d say the same, but since you won’t  _let_  me, I want to be there to help, if I can.  I know you feel the same—it’s why you never let me patrol alone.  Even if Buffy’s with me you’re still worried.  Spike, I love you.  I  _love_  you.  I don’t want you to get hurt.  I don’t want you to be unhappy.  I don’t want to lose you.”

He wasn’t going to cry.  He  _wasn’t_.

“Should.  Should let me go, Xander.”  The sound of shattered glass dragged along slate.

“Why?  Tell me  _why,_  Spike?”  He hadn’t wanted to do this here, in the middle of a deserted street, Angel presumably inside the nearby building.  “I  _love_  you.”

“I cheated on you.”  The finality in those words made Xander’s rage spark with incandescent fever.  Spike knew how Xander felt about cheating—after Xander’s disastrous kiss with Willow and over a year with a former vengeance demon, it had become something the human was  _very_  particular about.  He’d made Spike promise that if—he’d said ‘when’, despite Spike’s vehement denials—Spike ever felt the need for someone else that he’d tell Xander first.  No matter how casual the desire might be, to  _always_  tell Xander first.  Even if it broke the human’s heart.  He’d rather know than be cuckolded.

“No, you didn’t.”

Short, sharp laugh, the kind that made his own throat ache with sympathy.  “Did.  Last night—”

“With Angel.  I know.  And you didn’t.  God, do you  _all_  think I’m stupid?”  Pulling Spike around so that he could glare into eyes gone crystal blue, he fought the urge to snarl again.   _“You didn’t cheat on me!”_

“I—”

“Do you love him?”  Spike wordlessly shook his head, eyes wide as he watched Xander, body trembling slightly.  “Did you stop loving me?”  Hard shake.  “Did you get off on it?”  Another shake and Spike slumped down, held up only by Xander’s arms.

“You knew.”

“Of  _course_  I knew, Spike!  I—dammit, go out and kill something.  Go kill something or I fuckin’ will!”  The burning rage was fighting to get free and hurt something.  If Spike didn’t get out of the car, Xander was going to.  He didn’t care if the damned things were poisonous.  He wanted to bash something until it bled.  He pushed Spike towards the door.

“But—Angel—”

 _“Get out of the car!”_   Xander watched as Spike quickly grabbed the bag underneath his seat—fighting clothes they always kept with them, just in case—and scurried out of the car.  He didn’t look back once as he entered the decrepit building.

Xander screamed.

Breathing hard, tears blurring his vision, Xander tore the car away from the curb.  He drove hard, screeching the tires, revving the engine, yanking the wheel, and generally doing all the things he swore he’d never do to his four-month-old baby.  By the time he reached the Hyperion, he was a mess.  Distantly, he was glad he had snapped pictures when he did—if nothing else, he was sure his makeup was in large streaks down his face.

“Holy—Xander!  What the hell happened!”

Ignoring Gunn’s worried shout, Xander thundered down the stairs to the exercise room.  Stripping out of the skin-tight clothes, he headed towards the punching bag and just let go.

He’d never wanted to do this, before.  The Zeppo had never been  _able_  to take his frustrations out in this manner, concentrating on more mundane things like babbling and snarking to himself and occasionally getting caught up in adolescent attempts at bomb-making.  The Zeppo didn’t find release pounding into something that didn’t give  _quite_  enough.

Spike’s boyfriend did.  It was how  _Spike_  unwound, especially if it was Xander he was upset about and he couldn’t wheedle a bit of rough sex.  When Spike had meticulously re-taught Xander how to move and walk and the basics of defending himself, he’d introduced the punching bag as something Xander should learn to love.

Xander did.

He punched and yelled mindlessly until his throat was sore and his knuckles were split and bleeding.  He even tried kicking a few times, but that didn’t give the same satisfactory feeling, so he stuck with punching.  Over and over until he knew he was seconds away from crying.

Because he knew just how stupid he’d been.

“Here.  Let’s fix those up.”  The quiet, concerned British voice filtered through the dust motes and for a second he felt like he was back home in Sunnydale; warm and safe and protected.  But the hands that took his were longer, thinner than the ones who normally patched him and the feeling shattered.

“How could I do that?  I know how he gets when I’m. . .”

“Dominant?”

“Controlling.  I shouldn’t have done that.  I shouldn’t have  _said_  that.  Oh, Christ, I never should have come here.”

He stared morosely at the floor, uncaring when something stinging was applied to the lacerations and then bound tightly.  “You were upset, then?”

“He thinks I shouldn’t love him.  He thinks. . . I don’t know what he thinks.  But he’s wrong.”  Xander looked up at a face that appeared so much older and more mature than the plump, youthful annoyance he remembered from three years before.  “I love him.  Why won’t he love me back?”

“He believes he  _does_ , Xander.  I’ve had rather a long conversation with Angel.  He is. . .uncomfortable speaking to you about this.  I have offered myself as translator since some of the problems are. . . quite complex.”

“He’s a vampire.  I’m a human.  Where’s the complexity?”  Bitterness crashed over the pain, twisting it like a dull knife in his belly.  “I  _know_  he can love.  He just doesn’t love me.”

“Why don’t you go take a shower, clean up.  Then I’d like to speak with you, if I may.  Angel knows not to disturb us.”

He knows—Xander looked up abruptly.  “You bastard.  If you wanted to talk to me without Spike, you could have said so.  Instead, you send him on a fucking wild goose—”

“I did nothing of the kind.”  The mild reprimand stopped him faster than any shout.  Rubbing his eyes, Xander forced himself to stop wallowing in pity.  Pity wasn’t going to fix what he’d screwed up.  But maybe Wesley could.  “I did not manufacture Cordelia’s vision, nor did I fabricate the effects of the poison.  Those are very real and Spike’s help  _is_  needed.  However, you are correct.”  Wesley sighed and Xander could believe that this was the man who now ran Angel Investigations.  This was Giles’ mannerism combined with Buffy’s authority.  “I should not have attempted to manipulate you like that, especially since I knew Spike was in the car with you.  Forgive me.  I did not wish to cause you more pain.”

Swallowing, Xander waved the apology away.  He rubbed at his eyes and sighed explosively.  “Don’t.  You wanted to help me.  I’ve been  _trying_  to help Spike for months, now.  See how far it’s gotten me?”

“Let’s at least level the playing field then, yes?”

Xander grasped the hand Wesley offered, allowing the smaller man to haul him to his feet.

* * *

Angel remained slumped against the wall, watching as Spike stripped out of obviously brand-new clothes.  The other vampire’s movements were rough and jerky as he pulled on a loose t-shirt and an oversized pair of sweat pants.  Angel was sure the actual owner of the pants had dark hair and a heartbeat.  Spike had to tie them three times before they stayed on his slim hips.

“Zorazzik demons,” Angel said, while Spike carefully folded the new clothes and hid them securely.  Nothing was going to touch these clothes, clearly precious to Spike.  The way he had caressed the studded leather pants. . .   “Shouldn’t be too much trouble.  Hive-mind.  We go after the queen.”

Spike nodded shortly and Angel could see unshed pain behind the movement.  Odd.  Well, not that odd, but usually when the fighting started, Spike could push everything else to the edges and concentrate  _only_  on the fighting.  It was what made him as dangerous—and successful—as he was.  But now. . .

Now, Spike’s attention was still in the car that had pulled abruptly away from the curb, tires squealing harshly.  Angel shook his head, pushing himself off his perch and heading towards a crack in the side wall.  A distracted Spike was a risk; an emotionally distraught Spike was a danger to Angel, their ability to deal with the demons—and himself.

That worried Angel.  He didn’t want Spike to hurt himself—and yes, he  _did_  care, so his little internal Cordelia-voice could leave him alone now—but it wasn’t in Spike’s nature to hurt _himself._   Others, yes.  Random inanimate objects, definitely.  Spike went on rampages, tearing up anything in his path, turning his rage outward so that the incandescent power of it burned out faster and he could start dealing with whatever had bothered him in the first place.

Internalizing that rage meant that it was going to demolish the very foundations that made up Spike—his strength, his ability to survive, to always regain  _some_  kind of control over his life.  It meant that Spike was destroying himself over whatever the problem was, and he knew it.

It meant that this was very serious.

Despite his divided attention, Spike still showed his customary skill as they prowled through the abandoned building.  He had always been Angelus’ preferred hunting partner, especially once he’d worked through the desire for the theatrical, ostentatious fights that newly-turned William seemed to thrive on.  After a little bit of training—and a lot of beatings—Spike became controlled, powerful, clever, strong, swift, and smart.  And  _this_  hunting partner wasn’t selfishly dominant or insane, which made Angelus very happy.

It wasn’t something Angel had forgotten.

Most of the hive was out—Angel had set up a distraction earlier—so they just had to find the queen, fight whatever guards she had, and kill her.  They were tracking by scent: the cold, oily flavor in the air definitely not from the puddles of machine oil they occasionally skirted.  So far, Angel felt confident that they hadn’t been spotted.

“How much?”

The first words Spike had spoken to his sire since he’d left Angel’s room last night, cum staining his lips.

“What?”

“How much did you hear?”  The pain, the raw open wounds in Spike’s voice shocked Angel into stillness.  Spike didn’t  _want_  to ask these questions—that was part of the pain.  He didn’t want to, but he had to.

The faint echo of a dim memory, his own voice, thick with an Irish brogue, as he lectured a broken, prostrate, vampire.   _“Never keep things from your Sire.”_

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They were in the room Wesley used.  Barely lived in, but obviously the former Watcher’s; the books strewn around it were a dead giveaway.  Wesley handed him a beer, smiling slightly when he placed the second on the desk and instead picked up a cup of tea sitting on the desk.  It’s half-empty state told Xander that Wesley had been up here, probably working on the notebook covered in tiny, precise lettering, before coming to find him.  Wesley sat at his desk, taking a small sip, while Xander ambled about distractedly.  He was too wound up to sit, especially since the only other seat was the bed.

“I’m afraid these concepts are going to be very difficult to comprehend,” Wesley started, staring at the floor.  The  _old_  Wesley would have stared at a spot above his head.  The  _new_ Wesley wasn’t going to look anywhere but his eyes—unless he was exceptionally nervous and unsure.  That understanding killed the biting reply Xander desperately wanted to make.  “I am not attempting to belittle your abilities to understand, nor to make this overly complex, but this. . . isn’t human.”

“I know.”  Calm, simple words.  Wesley wasn’t the reason for his anger.

“Yes, you do.”  Wesley gave him a wan smile, setting the tea cup down.  “Forgive me, please, but I’ve spoken with Angel and some of the things he revealed to me were not very pleasant.  I admit to being rather shaken.”

That cut through the still-burning rage.  Xander took a pull of his beer, hating himself for using the alcohol to steady his nerves but needing the extra cushion.  “So it’s bad.  Okay.  I’m expecting that.  But you  _can_  tell me what’s going on?”

“No.”  Xander met eyes as brown as his own, openly regarding him without thin lenses to block the sincerity of their gaze.  “I can’t.  No one can.  I  _can_ , however, help you gather information and perhaps between the three of us, we can—”

“Not Angel.  After tonight, I don’t want Spike alone with Angel again.”

“Xander—”

“Did he tell you?  While he was telling you all the horrible things Spike’s done, did he tell you what he did to Spike?  What he  _made_  Spike do?”

The rage was back, blurring his vision, but he was unprepared for the calm understanding he saw in the other man.  Wesley was Angel’s; despite being the leader of Angel Investigations and the boss of all its employees, Wesley was  _Angel’s._   That’s where his loyalty lay, and that’s who he’d trust first.  So the frank agreement made him grab up the bottle and take another deep drag.

“You assumed that the ‘horrible things’ that Angel spoke of were things that Spike has done?”

“Well, yeah.  No real love lost between those two.”  Xander knew his bitterness was irrational.  Although he  _hadn’t_  gone to eavesdrop when Spike slipped from his room, like he’d wanted to, he was pretty sure that Angel hadn’t expected or  _wanted_  the visit.  It was only the sheer physical pleasure that made him accept the advance.  Xander  _knew_  that.  It didn’t stop the hatred he felt for the older vampire, the hatred he had felt because of Buffy.

This time, though, it wasn’t about confused adolescent lust.  This had so much more in it.

“Xander, Angel spent most of the time speaking of  _himself._   Of Angelus.  And the ‘horrible things’ you fear so much—they were done to Spike, by Angelus.”

Xander sat down.

“Now, then.  Are you ready to listen?”  Another level look and Xander was reminded uncomfortably of Giles, always warning him to back off and slow down until everything was understood.  He nodded, just a bit sheepishly.  “Very good.  To begin, we first have to look at the very nature of Spike’s turning and then the nature of vampires themselves.  Specifically, their family life.”

“Family?  Huh.  Spike’s used that word a couple of times.  And I know Spike’s about turning.  Dru found him after a party, decided he had one too many burning baby fish around his head and sucked him off.  Both ways.”  He could feel the faint surprise in the older man’s gaze at his calm recitation.  What, did he think that Xander was going to be upset?  Drusilla’s actions had given him a partner he loved—and hating Dru for sleeping with Spike was as silly as Spike hating Anya for sleeping with Xander.  It was the past.  It was important because it affected their present and future selves, but the events themselves were past and unchangeable.

That, and it wasn’t exactly as if Spike was cheating on him, given his great-great-grandfather had barely been born at the time.

“Yes, well.  It’s slightly more complicated than that.  It has to do with what a sire actually means.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

“How much did you hear?”

Angel cursed himself for not realizing it sooner.  He should have seen the signs— _had_  seen the signs—but what did it matter since Spike was obeying?  And what did it mean for Angel, that the things the demon wanted, still pleased the soul?

“Hear what?”

Low growl and Spike turned to face a burned-out wall.  His body trembling with tension, fists clenched tightly enough that Angel could scent the slivers of blood Spike had pricked with his nails.  “How much?”

Angel fought the urge to sigh.  A very useful human trick, offering a chance to work the body while the mind scrambled frantically.  Vampires, however, had no need to breathe and couldn’t really use that delaying tactic.  “No words,” he said eventually.  “I heard the tone and. . . guessed.  But no words.”

“I—I can’t—”  Absolute agony in the broken voice and Angel was struck by the obscure need to take Spike in his arms.  He didn’t, but he wanted to.  To reach out and soothe family, the way a Sire was supposed to.  Angel blinked.  He hadn’t thought of himself as Spike’s Sire since he was cursed.   _Angelus_  had always been the possessive one, not Angel.

Right?

“Of course you can,” he said briskly.  “I don’t know what you did, but that boy  _loves_  you, Spike.  Of course you can go back.”

“No.  He—he doesn’t—want me.”  All the energy rushed out with the last two words, leaving Spike slumped up against the wall, breathing shallowly.  “He doesn’t want me,” was whispered again into the burned wood, his mouth tasting the shapes it formed.

“Yes, he does.  It was just a fight, Spike.  We had them all the time.”

“You’re my Sire.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“There are intricacies in turning that Angel would not tell me, but he did give me general information.  There  _are_  multiple ways of turning a human, depending on what you want the resulting vampire to be.” 

Wesley shifted in his seat, glancing from his notebook back towards Xander, perched on his bed.  Xander was sitting very still, clutching the half-full bottle but refusing to take another drink.  He was glad it was dark, the room lit only with a single lamp that shed most of its light directly onto the desk.  He wasn’t a good poker player, despite Spike’s teaching, and he didn’t want Wesley to be able to read his face that quickly.

“There are accounts that mention the difference between a ‘minion’, a ‘fledgling’ and a ‘childe’.  Angel said that these labels were totally fictitious, made up by prying humans, but they _were_  based on an instinctive hierarchy that forms the foundation of a vampire’s social structure.  He chose to use ‘minion’ and ‘childe’ in his explanation, so that we might better understand.”

“Wes.  I get the fascination you have, really, but what the hell does this have to do with Spike?”

The small smile he got did not improve his mood.  “Drusilla had already gone through several ‘minion’ level vampire guardians.  They were created expressly to watch over Drusilla, to keep her out of trouble and happy.  They were little more than glorified babysitters, with less intelligence than while they were human, controlled almost totally by their instincts and desires.  Angelus and Darla instilled upon them the need to take care of Drusilla—otherwise, they probably would not have.”

“‘Mindless cannon fodder’.  Spike called them that, once.”

“Yes.  They are little more than vampiric beasts, unable to be more creative than a stalk-and-feed routine, with little interest in the demonic community at large or demonic politics, and barely able to defend themselves against an ambitious human.  They are walking, talking animals, who needed to be cared for nearly as much as Drusilla herself.  Angel said that they were often apt to forget their instructions and allowed attacks on her.  Or, just as often, they were unable to prevent the attacks from occurring.”

“So, what—Angelus wanted a smarter babysitter?”  This was not endearing him to the cursed vampire.  Not at all.

“No.  Minions are nearly mindless drones and eminently replaceable.  Angelus liked. . . training new minions to care for Drusilla, so he had no objections to continually replacing her handlers.  Drusilla herself, however, wanted a companion, a. . . . a brother.”

That got Xander’s attention.  “A  _brother?_   Not unless she’s from Arkansas and I didn’t know it!”

* * * * * * * * * * *

The broken, shattered echoes of reaffirmation were like knives in the shadows.

“Aye, lad, I am.”

The words burst from him, accent coloring their form and meaning, before Angel could blink.  Then he cursed himself.  A lot.

The trembling returned and for a moment Angel was certain that Spike would fall to his knees.  The need to hold Spike, to offer him comfort, also returned.  It was a struggle not to give in to it.

Scrambling about mentally, Angel searched for a way to soothe Spike with words alone.  “Yes, I  _am_  your Sire.”  He forced himself to speak in an American accent, not wanting Angelus to creep up on him like that again.  “But I haven’t been for a hundred years, Spike.  I lost the right to be your Sire when I abandoned you and Dru, doubly damning you since Darla had left as well.  You learned to be your own Sire, Spike.  You don’t need me, not anymore.”

A single jerk of bleached hair told Angel he wasn’t getting through.  Crap.

“And anyway, it doesn’t matter if I am your Sire or not,” he continued.  “Because none of that means anything, now that you’re—now that you’re with humans.”

Oh, fuck.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Not a brother the way we mean the word, no, Xander.  The, er, sex was not an issue between—”

Xander waved, preventing more embarrassed comments.  “Sorry, I get it.  Anywhen, anywhere, anyhow, and anywho—even if it had tentacles.  So, Drusilla wanted a brother?”

Wesley seemed relieved that he wouldn’t have to explain more of  _that_ , no matter how comfortable in his own skin he seemed to be.  “I doubt she could have articulated so coherent a desire, but yes.  She wanted a constant companion, a friend as well as a lover.  This put Angelus in something of a bind.  He wished to please Dru, but in giving her what she desired, he was also leaving himself. . . vulnerable.  So, he went about selecting the potential vampire very, very carefully.  Angelus needed someone more capable than the minions, but would still be very loyal to Angelus, not Drusilla.  Someone that Angelus—”

“Could dominate.” 

“Yes, exactly.”  Xander wondered just what had happened between the Watcher and the soulless version of the vampire to put  _that_  kind of expression on Wes’s face.  Not that it was a particularly expressive expression, but Xander hadn’t spent the past six years of his life with Giles without learning how to read British inscrutability.  Wesley knew  _exactly_  who his former boss and current employee was.  Good and bad.

“Bet Darla wasn’t too thrilled with that,” Xander choked out, mind racing.  Spike  _had_  mentioned something about Dru and Darla about two years ago, something about trying to drive Angel crazy. . .

“No, I can’t imagine she was.”  The dry, amused sarcasm confirmed it.  Not only had Wesley met Angelus once or twice, he’d also met Darla.  Apparently she was everything Spike had described.  “Here is where we must deviate a bit to explain the various ways one can be turned.  Minions turn minions all the time, and they are usually what Buffy faces—strong and occasionally very clever, but usually stupid and infatuated with their own abilities.  A childe—although the name is a misnomer—is somewhat different.

“When Darla met Angelus, she found a human who was basically a waste.  What little intelligence he possessed was lost in drinking, brawling, and, er, tumbling.  That is a near direct quote,” he added to cover the faint blush.  “Angel is quite insistent that he was  _not_  an intelligent human.  I am unsure whether to believe him, although there are moments. . . ”

Xander nodded.  “Yeah.  Every once in a while, I’ll get a hint of what ‘Liam’ was like.  He makes  _me_  look like, well, Giles.”

“Yes, quite.”  Wesley tried to hide his amusement, but those British-reading-skills struck again and exposed the emotion.  And Xander realized that he’d finished the entire beer.  Placing the empty bottle on the table, he laced his fingers together to prevent himself from reaching for the second bottle that sat on the dresser.

“So, wait a minute.  If  _Liam,_  human-Angelus, was a moron then—why did Darla turn him?  Because Darla wanted a husband.  Spike was pretty clear about that.”

“A husband?  Hm.  That is a better explanation of what Angel called it.”

Shrugging, Xander leaned back.  “Spike said that Darla was a whore in the seventeenth century before the Master turned her.  A whore wants two things in life, once she stops whoring, according to William the Know-It-All.  Someone to cater to her and someone she can control.  Translation: a husband.”

“One who isn’t going to demand sex as payment except when she desires it, yes, that makes a great deal of sense.”  Wesley picked up the notebook and began scribbling in it frantically, looking suitably impressed.  Xander tried not to grin; he liked it when people realized he  _wasn’t_  the same donut-boy anymore.  And adolescent Xander, who still made his presence known occasionally, liked showing up the well-educated former-Watcher.

“Yes, that makes it much clearer, thank you.  Darla took a foolish human, and with the addition of a demon and a bit of training, she created a  _childe._   Not a minion.  This was someone equal to her in physical strength and mental acuity, but as Sire, she was still able to dominate—when she wished.  Angel said that Darla liked men taking care of her.  Except when she didn’t.”  The rueful look told Xander that Wes had made more than one attempt to understand the female mind—hopefully  _before_  being presented with the eternal enigma that was Cordelia.

Forcing himself to pay attention, Xander nodded thoughtfully.  “So, you’re saying that a minion can walk, talk, and  _act_  like a human, but it  _thinks_  along the level of an animal.  No patience, no real thought of the past or the future, just want, take, have.  A childe is different because it has the intelligence of a human, the strengths of the demon, and can still learn and, well,  _grow_ , mentally, the way a human can.”

Surprise flickered briefly before Wesley’s expression settled into a pleased smile.  “Yes.  Exactly.  Darla wanted a mate, one she could train to her wishes and control, yet smart enough and strong enough to be a true companion, rather than a servant.  While she was the technical head of the line, she yielded control to Angelus for the most part.  Angelus also created several childer—we  _must_  come up with a better term than that, I feel positively Victorian just saying it—although none were as powerful as he.”

“Yeah, can’t actually see Angelus sharing the wealth too much—oh!   _That’s_  why you meant a brother!  And  _that’s_  why Drusilla found him and did the initial bite!”

The pleased smile grew into something wider.  “Yes.  Angelus didn’t want a  _son_ , one that would eventually grow up and challenge him for power the way all children eventually do.  He wanted someone he could constantly control—”

“And who would be devoted to Drusilla.  Familial loyalty without the risks.”  Xander bit his lip, worrying the skin a little.  “Okay, I get that.  So he wanted a childe to take care of Dru, but he didn’t want the power struggles he knew he’d have.  Especially if it was a male childe, which it would have had to be for Dru to be happy.  Don’t ask how I know that, you  _really_  don’t want to hear those stories.”

“Quite, and thank you for the warning.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it.”  It wasn’t a question, not when Spike looked like he was about to curl up into a ball of misery.  “He’s human, and you—”

A buzzing sound gave them a split-second of warning.

Spike fell to the floor next to Angel.  A glance at the porcelain features told Angel that the internal anguish was pushed away by an unanticipated attack.  Spike  _hated_  being caught off guard, and Angel hoped it would help force Spike out of this funk.  If he wasn’t totally focused and still of the opinion that not saving his own hide was a  _good_  thing. . .

“Fuck!” Spike swore, for a moment sounding like nothing was wrong.  “You didn’t tell me we were fighting bleeding flying monkeys!”

Angel growled, freeing the blades he’d carried in and passing one to Spike.  Only sharp-edged metal, preferably steel or cold iron, would penetrate the chitinous hide.  “Shut up and fight.”

They  _did_  look remarkably like flying monkeys, Angel realized as he shoved himself to his feet and began to slash.  Shaped similarly: with small, wiry bodies; four limbs all ending in appendages that looked remarkably like hands; and leathery wings attached to their backs.  They were metallic grey and clicked when they moved.

Hacking and slashing, he and Spike forced their way through the hundreds of zorazziks that attacked them, working toward where the smell was strongest.  That would be where the queen was, they were sure.  At least, Angel was sure.  Spike—

Spike was playing backup.  Fighting their way down a narrow hallway, surrounded literally from all sides, it  _was_  the best place for him to be.  Except Spike  _hated_  playing back up and, in times past, wouldn’t without some show of force from Angelus.  Even then, he would sulk and grumble about it almost continuously, snarking his way through the fight.

Angelus had come to depend on the pithy comments as a means of communication between the two of them.  It often distracted their opponents and over time it had become a soothing background noise that helped him formulate plans all the quicker.

Angel missed the commentary desperately just then.

“It’s not fair,” he said as they moved through the hallway.  The demons weren’t that difficult to kill, relying almost completely on the stinger on their tails.  Both Spike and Angel had been stung repeatedly; but though the bites had began to itch, they remained at a low enough intensity that ignoring them was easy.  “Not to you, Spike,  _or_  to him.  He loves you.”

A low growl met his words.

“Dammit, Spike, that is idiotic!  He’s  _human_.  You can’t submit to him, he doesn’t understand what that means!  And anyway, it’s not what you want.  You’ve  _never_  wanted to submit before, why the hell would—”

Angel wondered if he was  _ever_  going to finish thinking something through before realizing the answer mid-word.

“If that’s what you wanted, why the hell didn’t you  _tell_  him!  Answer me, Spike.  If you want me as your Sire, then you’ll damn well obey me!”

“He’s  _human,”_  Spike snarled, little humanity left in his voice.  That scared Angel, earning him a nice sting in the center of his chest when he faltered as a result.  Spike had always been so human, even when fully in the throes of the demon.  It was his humanity that gave him his strength for so long and to lose it now. . .  “How could he want me, a  _demon?_   A monster, a fucking  _thing?_   He’ll use me.  And I’ll let him.  But one day he’ll grow up and want a wife and kiddies and no matter how much I submit, no matter how much he takes—he’ll leave me.”

 _“Your Sire is your life.  You belong to your Sire.  You will always obey your Sire.  You will care for your Sire.  You will_ never _leave your Sire.  Never.”_

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Wesley lifted the remaining bottle sitting next to him on the desk, tilting it questioningly.  Xander shook his head, grateful when Wes opened it and took a pull himself.  They’d been up here for over two hours now and tea only went so far with a dry throat.

“Spike told you that Drusilla was his sire, yes?  Intriguing.  I wonder if Drusilla believes that she truly is Spike’s sire.”

“Uh. . . she isn’t?”   _Arrogant, shouting voice, full of pain a frightened little boy couldn’t hear, couldn’t understand.  The cold, hard grip on his neck as he was thrust from one demon, who had betrayed him, to the new demon, clad in leather and sharp punk attitude._ “Not that Spike is the most reliable source about this kind of thing, either.”

“Despite the misnomer of ‘childe’, the act of turning a sophisticated vampire is  _not_  the vampiric instinct of procreation.  They do not feel this need, according to Angel.  Usually, childer are created out of a need for companionship—intelligent companionship.  They can be chosen the way Angel was, by taking a human and using the demon to create the desired result. . . or the way Spike was.”

Xander blinked.  “I’m totally lost now.  Spike wasn’t—Spike wasn’t turned like a normal childe?”  His index finger began to tap a frantic beat on the wooden arm of his chair.  Great.  Just great. Xander wished he could go back to his room, curl up and wait until Spike came home and then fuck him until he couldn’t think anymore.  This whole stupid trip was the biggest mistake he’d ever made.

“Spike was turned to become Drusilla’s companion—a vampire who had the mental maturity of a young child.   _Not_  an animal, she was indeed a true childe, but. . .”

“But she’s nuts.  He was turned to be a smarter babysitter.”

“In essence.”  Wesley looked ashamed, although why  _he_  should be upset at something Angelus had done over a century before Xander didn’t know.  Didn’t care, either.  He wanted Spike.  He wanted makeup sex, he wanted to tell Spike how much he loved him and he didn’t  _care_  about the rest of the bullshit.  So long as he loved Spike, and Spike loved him nothing else was important—couldn’t anyone see that?

The tapping got faster.

“So?  What did Angelus do for his darling Drusilla?”

“How did—you’ve heard Angelus call her that?”

“I’m in love with Spike.  You do remember Spike?  The one who talks about his past only when he’s blasted and most of the time says fuck-all about it?  I’ve done the research, Wes.  Yeah, didn’t exactly call down to chat with dear old granddad, but I  _have_  tried to get as much information as I can.”

“Ah.  Yes.  Xander, I’m not attempting to cause you any more difficulty, but. . . I believe you  _do_  need to know this.  I think it will be invaluable in helping you—”

“What?  Deal with Spike?   _Fix_  him, like he’s a broken toy?”  Xander was up on his feet and pacing before he realized it.  “He’s my  _lover._   I don’t want to  _fix_  him, I want him to be  _happy._   There’s a difference!”

“There is, Xander, and I do understand that.”  It was the quiet confidence that made Xander slow down, looking back towards the bed to see the same kind of control and poise he was used to seeing in battle-Buffy.  “The problem is that he  _is_  broken.  And you need to understand  _how_  before you proceed.  I admire your desire to simply see him happy, but I do not think it is possible without some attempt at healing first.”

“Fuck you!”  Snatching up his empty bottle, Xander hurled it towards the wall.  The shattering sound calmed him a little, but he was still breathing hard and clenching his fists.

“The rage is part of it, you know,” Wesley told him mildly.  “He senses it, and reacts to it.  The way he was trained.”

Xander went rigid.

“Yes, trained, Xander.  This is why I was so shaken, for Angel was brutally frank about what he did to William.  Now, will you sit down and let me continue, or do you wish to have another temper tantrum?”

“Angelus chose him, didn’t he?  Spike hates talking about what he was like when he was William, but he has.  He was sweet, then.  Innocent. Loving.  He used to take care of his mom and sisters.  Played nursemaid when he wasn’t scraping together money for them.  I don’t remember what he said they had, but they were sick a lot.  His dad died when he was young and he was the only one who could take care of them.  So he did.  He loved it too, you can see the way his eyes light up when he talks about them.  Even now, a hundred years and a demon later, he still loves his family.  He still wishes he could have saved them, protected them better.”

Xander slowly turned around, not bothering to hide the tears that wet his face.  “Angelus took that.  He gave sweet, innocent William a demon’s strength, and a demon’s needs, but he kept everything that made up William, too.  He tortured him just as much as he did Dru, except he didn’t want a broken, raving lunatic.  He wanted an obedient, caring lapdog.  Didn’t he.”

Wesley could only nod.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“This is why you thought you loved Buffy, isn’t it,” Angel snarled, although his ire was directed at the zorrazik currently stinging his leg—and ripping yet  _another_  hole in the brand new chinos he’d just bought.  A nice soft grey, too.  “Because she was the strongest?  Because you needed someone to be stronger than you?”

Spike didn’t answer, concentrating on hacking his way through to the small, roundish grey thing near the wall.  They were pretty sure that was where the queen resided.  It would certainly explain why there were  _thousands_  of Zorraziks attacking them.

“And when she rejected you, you thought that was it, didn’t you?  Willow wasn’t strong enough.”

A low growl,and then, “Witch is plenty powerful.”

“Yeah, magically, but not—ow, dammit!—personality-wise.  Oh, she can be, with the right motivation, but that’s too dark for you.  Buffy is strong in spite of the darkness, Willow can’t be without it.”  A very stupid, very dangerous idea occurred to Angel.  It was probably going to backfire in his face, but this  _wasn’t_  Spike.  This was miserable, suicidal Spike, with blood streaking his body where he hadn’t avoided sharp claws when he should have—when he  _could_  have.  This was Spike who was fading away into nothing, the kind of Spike Angelus had tried for so desperately.

Even though it had taken over a century to come to fruition, Angelus  _had_  created this Spike, no matter how much Angel wanted to deny that.  So maybe Angelus’ way was all there was left.  Sending a brief prayer to whomever would listen that he wasn’t about to make things worse, Angel reached into his mind for the ever-present feel of black, desperate, hungry filth—and opened himself to it. 

“So who else was there. . . Giles?” he asked snidely, the cruel confidence of Angelus leaking into his words.  He knew Spike heard it, saw the younger vampire tense and shrink just a little more.  “Nah, too much of the old you peeking through for comfort.  Or did he remind you too much of your father?”

A roar of anger—Angelus clearly remembered how precious Spike’s human family had been to him—and Spike was ripping his way through the final protection, hacking at the grey, slippery lump attached to the wall.  It crumbled under his assault, leaving behind a very large, female version of the Zorrazik that still attacked them.

“I bet you even considered Riley, didn’t you?  Except he didn’t even like you the tiniest bit and you couldn’t handle that, could you?  Always so dependent on what other people thought, on other people’s affections.  That’s why you hated Angelus so much when he came back, isn’t it?  Not because he was fucking Dru, but because he  _ignored_  you.  He  _despised_  you, the unneeded waste he never should have created.  Isn’t that what he called you?  And Dru couldn’t care less for you, even when she fed you and changed your clothes.  The fucking cripple, not a demon, just a burden.  It’s why you didn’t turn to me, either, because Angel felt even less about you than Angelus did—and you hated me for it.”

“Fuck you!”  Animal howl of pain and Spike was using his fangs and clawed-fingers to rip the female Zorrazik apart, pulling limbs off with a squishy  _pop_ , blue-black ichor spraying everywhere.  The sword lay unneeded on the ground, a desperate attendant snatching it up.  Angel beheaded him quickly, grabbing the blade before someone else could attack Spike—the state he was in now, he wouldn’t know it was coming.  Or care if it did.

“He needed you.  That’s why you went to him, because he  _needed_  you.  He loves you, so you think you love him back—because you need that.  I— _Angelus_ —made you need that.  You have to have someone want you, or you’re nothing.  Even though he’s human, even though you know he’ll leave—he  _wants_  you.  And the fucking trained puppy that you are, you’ll give it to him.”

Spike arched his back over the bloody corpses and screamed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Xander was on the floor, head in his hands.  He wasn’t crying; there wasn’t enough emotion left for tears.  He wanted Spike.  He wanted Spike so badly it was an ache in the pit of his stomach where he usually ached for sex.  He didn’t want sex.  He wanted  _Spike._

He wanted Spike to love him.

“It wasn’t foolproof, of course,” Wesley was saying quietly.  “There were. . . complications.  No one had ever  _shared_  Sire-ship before, having one vampire kill and reanimate the corpse, while another changed the new vampire from minion to childe.  Also, Angelus was unprepared for the reactionary personality to develop when the soul—and its moral constraints—disappeared.  The brash, painfully flashy parts of Spike appeared within days and Angelus was never completely successful in—removing them.  He did, however, eventually force Spike to submit.  It took years.  The only reason Spike was not staked as a failure was his success in dealing with Drusilla, who appeared to love her ‘blue-eyed angel’.  She was cared for exactly as Darla and Angelus had planned, and it was easy enough to manipulate him when they truly needed to.”

Xander’s gut turned to ice.  “What’d he do?”  Wesley shifted but Xander refused to turn around and look.  “Tell me.  What did Angelus do.”

“This is not—pleasant.  Please, you may not—”

 _“What did he do?”_

A quiet sigh.  “Very well.  Angelus allowed the pattern of disobedience towards Darla and himself to occur for three years.  Then, one day, he grew sick of it.  He had them all return to London where he—he found William’s family.  His human family.”

“Oh, god.”

“Do you—yes, all right, I’ll continue.  William’s bloodlust—in fact his whole relationship with the demon—was different than a normal vampire’s.  After the initial display of violence, he hunted only when he was hungry, and he appeared not to enjoy the more. . . normal pastimes for a vampire.  Angel believes he grew to enjoy it only because Drusilla did—she wanted him bloody and violent, so he became so for her.  William—Spike—had argued against killing his family.  In fact, Angel found out later that he arranged for monies to be sent to them, so that they were still taken care of after his disappearance.”

“Angelus killed them.”

“First he tortured them.  Then he killed them.  Much the same as with Drusilla except. . .”

“I’ll kill him.  I’ll fucking kill him.”

“And avenge who?  The point isn’t that it happened, despite the horror of their deaths, it is what it means for Spike.  After that, Spike stopped fighting what Angelus wanted for him.  He became. . . obedient, at least most of the time.  Angel said that his fire seemed muted for a very long time and then he completely latched onto Angelus.  When Angelus drew away, after he was cursed and before he retreated into complete seclusion, he transferred that attention to Drusilla.  He couldn’t—he couldn’t live without the focus.  Not really.”

Xander finally lifted his head, raising empty eyes to stare towards the lamp.  The light was so bright.  Dazzling.  Hurting.  “Does he love me?  Or am I just. . . ”

More shifting and for a moment Xander thought Wesley was going to touch him, hug him, something.  But proper British men didn’t do that, except when they were Giles and Giles would have done the awkward hand on his arm thing.  Willow would have hugged him.  Buffy would have hugged him.  Tara would have given him that sweet, understanding smile.  Dawn and Fred would have shifted nervously before throwing themselves at him, as if their tears would ease his.

He wanted cool skin against his, a rough, mentholated voice whispering in his ear.  He needed it.

“I don’t know.  I believe so, but. . .”  But that meant he believed for Xander’s sake, not because there was evidence to the fact.

Rising unsteadily, Xander stumbled out of the room and down the stairs.  Bleary-eyed, he dug through the small cabinet Angel thought no one else knew about even though everyone did.  He knew it—there it was.  Thank god.

Uncapping the bottle of whiskey, Xander took a long, hard swallow.  Then he screwed the cap back on and put it away.

He gathered up the calamine lotion and other anti-itch lotions Wesley had bought, as well as the normal first-aid materials, and settled down to wait behind the front desk.

Spike would need this when he got back.


	7. Chapter 7

For a long time, Angel didn’t know what to do.  Regardless of his status as one of the undead, he was a  _man._   Men didn’t hug and hold each other; they didn’t cry their pain out on another’s shoulder.  They got drunk.  They killed things.  They had awkward conversations that inevitably turned to sex—or, if they were both vampires, to blood and death and sex.  The good things.

Spike lay among the corpses, bloodied clothes shredded to exposed swelling pink patches where he had been stung. . . sobbing.  Heartbroken.  No—just broken.  There was nothing left of the personality he’d worked so hard to craft to please Angelus and Dru, to keep himself sane.  There wasn’t even much left of the human he’d been, sweetly caring and considerate of the wants and needs of others.  There was just pain.  Just shattered remnants of a life lived too long.

“All right, Spike,” he said eventually.  His own wounds stung and itched feverishly and if nothing else, he wanted to get back to the hotel and  _bathe_  in the calamine lotion Wesley was supposed to have purchased.  Also, it was probably a bad idea to leave Spike to cry among bloody bodies.  It wasn’t very sanitary, for one thing.  “Come on, let’s go home.”

More tears and Angel tried to remember what had happened when Spike came back to Sunnydale after Dru had left him the first time.  How had the humans jollied him out of the intense crying then?  He needed to get Spike moving under his own power again, or the younger vampire would withdraw from the world totally.  It’d happened before, after all, and Angelus’ method of blood, sex, or flat-out ignoring him would only compound the problem, this time.  Spike needed his Sire, he needed someone to help him—

Then again, Angel itched.  A lot.

Shrugging at his own callousness, Angel knelt in the blood and gore and pulled Spike over his shoulder.  The smaller vampire thrashed at the forced movement but Angel managed to restrain him.  He was kicked in the head and gut a lot and now there were  _more_  rips in his nice black sweater—but it was ruined from the zorraziks anyway.  Let Spike tear it up; it didn’t matter.

Dumping Spike into the front seat of the GTX, Angel retrieved the hidden clothes _—very_  careful not to get any blood or gore on them—and placed them in the trunk next to the large cooler.  Opening the cooler, he contemplated the multiple bags inside.  Spike was silent now, staring off in the distance in a way Angel remembered from when William and Spike had held equal time over the pale, slim body.  “I’m sorry.”

Okay.  That  _wasn’t_  supposed to prompt hysterical laughter.

Cold blood was as disgusting as ever, but it was some of the human Xander had arranged for, so it at least tasted better.  Angel gulped three bags worth before closing everything and sliding into the car next to Spike.

“I’m sorry.  I never should have. . .  Angelus wanted. . .”

“Angelus wanted what he always wanted,” Spike said grudgingly, voice low and rough.  “Possessive bastard.  I’m his.  Always have been.  Always will be.”  Bloodshot eyes cut through the early morning gloom.  “’Cept Angelus ain’t here no more, is he?  So even though I’m his—”

“That’s not true.”  When Drusilla had approached him so long ago, wanting a puppy to play with, promising to clean up his messes and keep him nice and pretty, Angelus had been indulgent.  Also intrigued.  Guardians for Drusilla were usually easily manipulated into submission—a bit of pain, some mental torture and a show of force and they were baring their throats like good servants.  What Drusilla had requested demanded much more intelligence—and a much stronger resistance to the ‘usual’ methods.

It had driven Angelus to choose very carefully, despite what Drusilla had always believed.

“Innit?  Christ, Angelus, he  _loves_  me.  Says he does, any road.  And I can’t even—I can’t.  Was easier before—with the Slayer?  She didn’t know, didn’t care.  I was a nuisance she couldn’t bring herself to stake, nothing more.  But him. . . he—”

Spike was shaking.  Possibly just a reaction to the poison in his system, but probably not.  William had always worn his heart on his sleeve and Spike had never truly rid himself of that habit.

 _Look at the mess I’ve created,_  Angel thought sadly.   _No matter how much I’ve done to pay for Angelus, I’ll never truly be free._   Not for killing William—Spike would be the first to tell you that his human existence had been unbearable and meaningless and that he’d only felt fulfilled after dying.  But for creating this wreck of a vampire, all so that Angelus could play mind games?  For that, he was eternally bound.

“Spike.  I’m  _sorry._   I know it doesn’t fix things, but I am.  Before, in London. . .I never should’ve. . . ”  Spike froze.  They had never spoken of that week, not even during Angelus’ brief reign in Sunnydale, when Angelus tossed every hurtful, humiliating thing he could think of at Spike.  Even lost in Angelus’ insanity, he’d known not to cross that line.

Gently turning and tugging the still figure next to him, Angel slowly bared his own throat.  He could feel crystal blue eyes resting on his unbeating pulse, widened in shock and disbelief.  He waited, hoping that Spike would accept the only offering he had left to give this shattered creature.  It didn’t matter that Angelus had always viewed Spike as a complete and utter failure.  Spike believed he’d become what Angelus had wanted—which meant now, when Angelus was long gone, knowing that his experiment with Spike had failed, the results he’d sought manifested themselves.

Preternatural strength and healing were wonderful things, but a full five minutes of tilting his neck at an awkward angle was giving him a cramp.

“Sp—”

Hands, unzipping him, pulling him out, all before he could react enough to shove himself out of grasping flesh made unnaturally hot, pushing at the now-frantic body next to his.  “Have to,” he heard panted over the sound of struggle.  “What you want—let me— _have_  to—”

“No, Spike, no!  I am  _not_  Angelus!”

“Could be,” was the taunting reply.  Angel blinked at the abrupt switches taking place, unable to keep up as Spike cycled through every facet of his personality.  “Could be again.  Let me please you, Sire, let me give you that one moment of true happiness.”  Blue, startling blue, reflected in someone’s headlights, staring up at him with manic glee as Spike again dove for his prize.  “Let me please you,” he repeated, holding Angel’s hands away with arm and shoulder while he stroked with a skill Angel hadn’t experienced for—

—three years.  When wheelchair-bound Spike had been forced to do exactly this if he wanted to be fed, Drusilla fully compliant with anything her Daddy wanted.

“No!”  Twisting them, he yanked Spike’s hands behind his back, pressing his own body up close to try and hold the thrashing vampire down.

“Like this?  Would it please you like this?” Spike asked, bucking back provocatively.  “Would it please you to take me again?  To make me—”

“Angel?  Man, you out here?”

 _Shit, Gunn!_

Spike was still moving, still writhing under him, apparently unconcerned that someone was going to see them.  Desperate, Angel threw Spike to the other side of the car and punched him.

“Yeah, that’s it, Sire, c’mon and—”

A nice, sharp cut to the right and in his weakened, frenzied state, Spike passed out.

Panting, Angel hurriedly arranged them so that when Gunn—“Angel.  There you are.  You okay?”

“Yeah, Gunn.  We’re fine.”  The tall man hovered next to the door, peering through the darkness to try and see into the open car.  Angel abruptly wished he’d put the top up; Spike wouldn’t stay unconscious forever and the top would have provided a little more shielding.  “What—why are you here?”

Gunn’s expression was unreadable, even to vampiric eyesight.  “Xander’s getting a little antsy.  Also a little drunk.  Fred and Cordy are keepin’ him company, I volunteered to go vamp-hunting, see if I could track you two down.”

“Shit.”  He could sense Gunn’s shock at his uncharacteristic cursing, but ignored it in favor of concentrating.

“Hey, is Spike okay?  He looks—”

“He’s fine.  Just knocked out, he’ll come around soon enough.”  Angel had no idea  _which_  Spike would wake up, but for his own sanity he hoped it wasn’t the version he’d just knocked out.  Spike had always been a fabulous sexual partner—

 _—even when he was paralyzed from the waist down.  Remember that,_ Angelus?

Shaking his head, Angel sighed and got control of himself.  “We’re done.  Took a little longer than we thought, but the queen’s dead.  We were just on our way back now.”

“Did I hear scuffling before?  You two tusslin’ for old time’s sake?”  Gunn grinned at Angel’s shocked expression.  “Hey, just asking.  Should warn Xander not to tell as many stories as he does.”

Grumbling, Angel started the car.  “Meet you at the hotel.”

Gunn’s laughter faded under the roar of the convertible’s engine.  The drive was quiet, although Angel knew when Spike regained consciousness.  He remained silent, however, so hopefully whatever mania had possessed him before was gone.  There  _had_  to be a way of dealing with this, one that didn’t include Angelus.  There had to be.

Cruising to a red light, Angel let the car idle, wondering what the hell he should say.  He had to say  _something_ ; once the others knew how badly he’d botched this, they— _Cordelia_ —would ask him what he tried to do to fix it.  Which meant he had to at least attempt; Cordelia actually went  _through_  with her threats.   _Angelus has nothing on her abilities to torture._   So he had to do something. . . other than sit there.  “So, uh. . . are you hungry?”

Silence.

“Great, you’re back to not speaking.  You  _should_  be hungry, if you aren’t.  I have human in the trunk.  I should have offered earlier, I know, but I thought—”  _But I thought you might be willing to accept Sire’s blood, instead.  Silly me, as Cordy would say._   “So are you?”

“Can’t go back.”

The light changed and Angel debated circling the block for a little while.  Dawn wasn’t that far off, though, and Gunn was following right on their tail.  “Where else are you going to go?”

“Don’t know.  Don’t care.  Can’t go back there.”

“It’s not like you to be scared,” he said cautiously.  Another red light.  Angel contemplated the possibility of Spike just jumping out of the car and what he’d do then.  “And, well, running?  Not fun.  Not when there are people who’ll be very concerned if you do.”

“They’ll get over it.”

Angel didn’t try to stop his snort of derision.  “Really?  About as well as you got over Angelus leaving—you.”  There was actually traffic to negotiate, despite the late—early?—hour so Angel couldn’t close his eyes or thump himself on the head, both of which sounded like good options.  He was a  _moron_ , to quote Cordelia.  “Spike, running doesn’t solve anything.”

“Did for you.”

“When?  After I spent a hundred years living off rats and driving myself insane?  Wanting to greet the sun to make the guilt go away, but too guilty to allow myself?  Yeah, that solved plenty.  Besides—he’d follow you.  You know he would.”

A familiar, wheezing chuckle that meant Spike wasn’t even close to being in control.  “Think I’m that bad off?  Can lose one human boy.”

“No.  I don’t think you could.”  He met Spike’s gaze steadily, wishing he had the words to make Spike understand.  “He loves you.”

“He just likes bein’ in love.”

“So that’s why he came here for his vacation?  To see  _me?_   Spike, he hates me and he always will, but he still came here because he thought it might help you.  He came here _immediately_  when Giles told him that I offered.”  Spike continued looking at him, empty eyes covering  _something_  that hadn’t been there before.  “That’s why he sent Gunn out here to make sure that we were okay?”

“That who’s following us?”  Angel blinked, surprised that Spike had even noticed.  But then, he’d never given the other vampire enough credit.

“Yeah.  Xander—”

“Didn’t come himself, did he?”  Something in Spike’s voice was wrong, too strained, too tense, too. . . angry.  Thinking over what he’d just said, Angel tried to figure out what could have set Spike off.  “Don’t like him getting hurt.”

“He didn’t come because Cordelia wouldn’t let him—Gunn said he was a little drunk.”

“Drunk.”  Any nervousness fled, leaving coiled anger tensed in the seat beside him.  Angel blinked,  _certain_  he’d said something wrong, now.   _Moron might not be strong enough.  Cordelia is going to be_ very _angry when we get back. . ._   “Spike, he—”

“Drive.”

That was a Spike he remembered: the flat, clipped word full of chilling anger that made Angel very nervous about bringing them immediately back to the hotel.  Maybe a short drive was just the thing; feel the night air, allow certain killing rages to cool off.  Coming back with Spike like this was going to lead directly to shouting, blood, and a pissed-off Cordelia.  Wesley would be pissed off too, but he didn’t shout as loud and Angel had practice ignoring the speaking-looks Wesley tended to use.

Gunn was still a car-length behind them.

“Spike—”

“Just drive.”

“I talked with Wesley,” he said conversationally.  Spike tried to interrupt him but Angel just kept talking.  “Explained some things.  Or, tried to—explaining vampire lore is really hard, you know?  Humans just don’t  _get_  it.”

He could hear Spike’s teeth grinding together.

“I would’ve talked to Xander myself but. . . he really does hate me.  Can’t say I blame him, either, but still; I can see how  _he’s_  changed, he should be able to reciprocate a little, don’t you think?  So, yeah, talking to Wes, that was cheating a little, but by now, they’ll have had time for a really long conversation.  Maybe explained a few things.”   _Like how you still belong to Angelus, even after a curse, a century, a chip, and a boy you want nothing more than to love.  At least, you_ think _you belong to Angelus._

And that might be enough to  _make_  it true.

They were pulling into the garage by that time, with Angel up and out of the car before he realized Spike was still sitting there.  A glance told him that yes, some of the rage had lessened—although not all of it—leaving a lot of confusion, pain and the knowledge that the grand, dramatic gesture Angel had planned hadn’t  _worked._   While Angel was feeling rather chipper with his three bags of human blood in him, Spike had had nothing.

 _What’s worse than a moron?  Idiot?  No.  Too prosaic.  Doofus?  I think Cordy’s called me that before.  Then there’s the raft of things Spike has called me.  All of them are pretty much appropriate right now._

Opening Spike’s door, he hauled out the slighter vampire, making sure that  _he_  was carrying most of Spike’s weight.  “Sorry,” he said shortly.  “Forgot you haven’t eaten.  Gunn?”  The truck idled and shut off, Gunn popping out with a questioning expression.  “There’s a cooler in the trunk and a bag of clothes.  Bring them both, please?”

“Sure.  Is he okay?  He looks wiped,” Gunn commented.

“He’s fine.  We’ll be upstairs.  Be careful with the clothes,” he added when Spike began to struggle.  “They’re new.”

“Sure.  You go on up; Cordy’s had blood warming for you and my guess is she  _really_  wants to be rid of it by now.”

As many times as he half-walked someone, Angel never got used to it.  There was the whole closeness problem, something he didn’t have to deal with unless he was fighting—and that had a different rhythm altogether.  Even after three years of working on a daily basis with humans who casually touched him all the time, it wasn’t something he particularly liked.  Then there were stairs, which were interesting enough with him unbalanced like he was.  Add in a body’s unwillingness to bend and it became. . . complicated.

Cordy threw open the door before Angel reached the top of the stairs—she must have heard Spike’s boots clunking or himself cursing.  “There you are!  What happened?  Was it bad?  We were worried!”

“It was fine, just took longer than we thought,” Angel soothed as he maneuvered himself to the plush grey sofa in the middle of the lobby.  Easing Spike down, he stretched for a moment and then turned back to Cordelia.  “He needs blood, a lot.  And we should really find out if calamine lotion works on vampires.”  He scratched at his chest, noting the swelling there.

“Then you’d best sit down,” Fred told him, her determined expression eerily mirroring Cordelia’s.  Angel sank down next to Spike, content to let the girls fuss over them both.  Gunn made a joke about mother hens, which Cordelia smartly returned even while she was cutting off the remains of Spike’s sweat pants.  Angel vaguely remembered Wes saying something afterwards and then the sound of people leaving, but he wasn’t clear on anything.  They were fed blood—Cordelia glaring until Spike actually started drinking his—their wounds cleaned, and each individual bite was carefully daubed with calamine—which, as it turned out— _did_  work on vampires.

Twenty minutes later, Cordelia pronounced them fit for movement.

“Where are Wes and Gunn?” Angel asked, stretching carefully so not to disturb any bandages.

“Home.  Asleep.  Where you should be.”

“And Xander?”  He caught Cordelia’s glance towards the desk—and the concern in her features.  Sighing, he helped her clean and put away the materials, shooing Fred up to her own room.

Xander was sitting at the front desk, staring moodily at an empty bottle.  He seemed oblivious to the fuss not ten feet from him, instead watching as a single bead of something amber colored rolled around the bottom as he twisted the bottle this way and that.  His eyes were focused on that same far reaching point that his lover’s were.

“He’s been like that, the last hour.”

“How much has he—”

Cordelia laughed, folding the spare towels and stacking them neatly.  “A few shots, that’s it.  I wouldn’t let him have more.  He’s just depressed and the same terrified little boy he’s always been.”  She glared when Xander didn’t appear to notice her loud comment.   _Spike_  noticed, though, shifting so that he wouldn’t be seen from the desk at all.

“It’s no use trying that,” she interrupted when Angel opened his mouth to address the human.  “He hasn’t done anything but play with that bottle for the last hour, like I said.  That’s when I made Gunn go look for you.  Who knew what kind of freaky vampire thing was making him act like that!”

“Freaky vampire thing?”

“One minute, we have the always humorous, slightly drunken retelling of why he isn’t enough for Spike and why he’s going to get dumped—like he always does—once Spike realizes that Xander isn’t really worth loving.  We’d had  _that_  for quite a while.  I was not happy.”  Her look said that it was all Angel’s fault—like he’d known it would be.  “Then, mid-sentence, he stops.  Picks up the bottle and starts doing  _that_ , like we were all suddenly invisible.  He doesn’t respond to anything, just sits there.  Wesley said to leave him alone, I decided enough was enough.”  Folding her arms, she turned her full attention on Angel.

He gulped, trying to hide it.

“Did you kill the Zorraziks?”

Safe ground; Angel knew the answers to these kinds of questions.  “Oh, yeah, they’re all dead.”

“Good.  Now, what did you say to make both of them go catatonic?”  She flung her arm out to Spike, who was staring morosely at the floor, and Xander, still watching the single drop of amber roll.   _“Is_  there some freaky vampire thing that they’re both suffering under?”

Angel sighed, scrubbing at his thoroughly destroyed hair.  “No, Cordy.  There’s no ‘freaky vampire thing’ connecting them.”

“Then why is he—”

“Cordelia.  Go home.  We’ll talk about this later, okay?”

Rolling her eyes, she reluctantly complied.  At least, flouncing her way out to her own car was a little like compliance.  She was going to make him  _pay_  for that later, he was sure.  Turning back to the rest of the room, he folded his arms, winced, and settled for glaring.  “Both of you are tired and hurting.  Go upstairs, go to sleep, don’t talk about anything until tomorrow evening.  Is that understood?”

No response, but then he wasn’t expecting one.  Sighing again, he threw up his hands and climbed up to his own bedroom.  He was hurt and tired.  Let them deal with their own mess for the moment.  He needed to sleep 


	8. Chapter 8

Silence could be a living thing.  Despite weeks of Spike relying primarily on non-verbal communication, this was the first time that Xander really understood the poetic description.  Silence was a living, breathing thing that could create a mood as effectively as it broke them.

Right now, the silence was angry.

“Are you okay?”  His voice sounded funny, alcohol and fear mixing with disgust and a slow-burning rage.  The conversation with Wesley had paused most of it, but sitting here in the lobby, listening to the strained chatter around him. . . wondering where Spike was, if he was okay, if today was the day the tendency for overblown, dramatic gestures got him into trouble he couldn’t get out of.  If Angel was going to help or hinder, if one of them finally broke.  If Angel was going to help or hinder, period.

He had a stake in his sock.

Habit made him turn slightly, checking to see if Spike made a response or not.  The plush round seat blocked his view, purple-grey fabric preventing bleach and black leather and those incredible blue eyes from whispering secrets his lips no longer did.

The silence writhed as they both waited, for Spike to make a move.  Xander wished to god he’d finished the fight back in the car, because running had given Spike new life.  Or maybe old life.  So now the silence hung there, hovering over their heads like storm clouds filled with angst and pain.  Ready to rain down upon them, the shit-storm to end all shit-storms.

“Spike. . . ” Spike.  A conical object, blunt on one end, sharp on the other.  It could be made of many materials and had many uses, ranging from functional to deadly to ornamental.  It could be smooth or ridged, sharp or blunt, soft or hard.  Sometimes even all at once.

Xander stared at the stupid sofa and hated it, since he couldn’t hate Spike.

“What do you want from me?”  The words were so quiet Xander almost missed them, so full of aching pain and suffused rage that he wished he did.  Spike was talking.  Really talking, not just responding to what was going on around him.  Spike was  _talking_  and Xander just wanted him to shut up, if he was going to sound like that.

“I want you.”

The slow sound of a vampire inhaling and exhaling shattered the silence, the remaining shards brittle and dangerous.  Xander wondered if running upstairs and pretending to sleep was too cowardly—because those shards  _hurt_.

Turning back to his bottle of alcohol, with barely a shot or two in it when he first found it, Xander contemplated the single drop at the bottom.  Whiskey was pretty.  Sometimes, after a lot of bullying and usually a blow-job, Spike would compare Xander’s eyes to whiskey.  Dark and rich and glowing with an internal light.

That aching voice from the sofa wasn’t going to compare Xander to anything again.

“Are you tired?” he asked, the broken shards around him shivering with laughter.  He was so weak.  He should be able to fix all this, say a word, some magic word that would make Spike stop hiding from him.  But he was just Xander and just Xander didn’t know those things.  He wasn’t witchy-Willow, or warrior-Buffy.  Not knowledgeable-Giles or innocent-Tara.  He was just Xander.  “You’re hurt pretty bad.”

“M’fine.”

Was this speaking good, then?  Two whole sentences more than Xander could ever remember occurring when Spike was upset.  Because upset-Spike was quiet-Spike.  And quiet-Spike was nothing more than a shadow.

“You’re not fine.”  The heavy clink of glass on faux-wood cracked through the remaining hints of the living, breathing silence from before.  Now there was only sharp-edged pain.  “You’re hurt.  Cordy said that—and I was—”

“Hard night waitin’ up for me, is it?  Sorry to be such a bother.”

The venom was scary, a malevolence Xander hadn’t heard in years now.  He wished he could admit that he’d missed it, since he did, but he was too scared of the implications now.  Now, when Spike’s anger was such a tangible thing, swords and knives and wooden pointy things, all aimed at Xander.

“Spike.  You’re not a bother.  You’re  _never_  a bother.”

An airless chuckle begged to differ.  “Angel said—got eyes, you know.  Can guess.”

Should he get up?  Move closer?  But Spike was  _talking_  and the small part of him that had finally shriveled under the days and weeks of constant affection sat up and reminded him that face-to-face hadn’t worked before and wasn’t it better this way anyway?  Less personal, so it hurt less.  Hurt  _Spike_  less.

“Can guess what?”  Xander swallowed the sudden lump, forcing his voice to level.  “What game do you think I’m playing?”

“Game?  Suppose that’s a fair assessment.”  This wasn’t his Spike.  This was cruel, merciless Spike, despite the quiet voice.  With the accent as hard and sharp as his namesake: every word a hammer to his skull.  This was the Spike he’d tried to bring back for over a  _year_.

The Spike he’d thought he could fix and still keep.

 _Be careful what you wish for._

Just another reminder why ancient Chinese proverbs were nothing to scoff at.

“Tell me.  Please.”  He hated the pleading sound of his voice.  He wondered if this was how Spike had felt—except he couldn’t have, because Xander  _never_  did this—but the shift in power was so dramatic that Xander felt floundering and afraid.  He’d never been afraid of Spike, not since the Initiative.  Maybe even before.

“Not a bother, am I?  So it was no trouble a’tall to come down here to spend time with them that you hate?  Waste your vacation like you waste everything else.”

Those weren’t Spike’s words.  Breathless against the bitterness, Xander reeled where he sat, mind scrambling to understand why and where—

A small, niggling doubt wormed it’s way into his mind, presenting things Xander really didn’t want to see.

“I get it,” he mumbled, not really speaking to Spike. “I’m still the Zeppo, aren’t I?  Still stuck in high school, where the world is black and white.  I hate Angel and vampires are evil, soulless things.  Unlovable things, even though I never,  _never_  thought that Angel didn’t love Buffy and that she didn’t love him in return.  So don’t you dare try to say that—”

“You’re insane.”  The disbelieving words accompanied the appearance of a single tuft of pure white hair.  Nothing else, although Xander was certain that  _Spike_  could see  _him_.

“Yeah.  Pretty much.  This is such a surprise, too, isn’t it?  After all, I’m with  _you.”_   Slumping back in his chair, Xander glared at the blank computer screen.  His fingers moved restlessly over the keys, closing on a pen and jiggling it absently.  Shouldn’t he feel calmer now?  Spike was  _here_  and  _safe_  and that was always the most important thing—but he could feel anger creeping in along his spine.

“Yeah.  You are with me.”  The malice from before was faded now, washed over with confusion and a hint of wonder.  Xander didn’t believe for a second that it would give him the reprieve he craved.  “Wonder of bloody wonders.”

And Xander did wonder.  Had always wondered.  Because Spike was gorgeous, lithe, and talented.  He’d made an effort to be liked by the ones he now called friend and they liked him just fine.  He could’ve had any of them, even Buffy.  She’d tried, too, in the months after her return, when she couldn’t understand what was going on and needed comfort none of them knew how to give her.  Yet those hesitant, destructive overtures had been shot down with a level of both disgust and compassion that had reassured Xander that Spike really was being truthful.  That it was Xander he wanted.

That it was Xander he wanted—but not no one else.

And then it clicked.  It all clicked, with a suddenness that stole the air from his lungs.  His stomach turned sour, balling into a tight knot of sickness while his body shook.  Bile rose as his mind flashed over comparisons, words and images jumbled together into one nauseating mess.

Spike’s reassurances had never come with the second part attached,  _never._

Which meant he was right.

“This is hell.  That’s—there’s no other explanation, is there.  This is hell.”  A hysterical laugh made him choke and shake his head, his heart beating in time with the pen he frantically tapped.  “I really am back in high school, aren’t I?  This is one great big nightmare except I’m not going to wake up to you laughing at me and pinching me like you used to.  Because this is  _real.”_

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“I’m not Angel.  I’m  _still_  not Angel.  And I’ve still got a bottle-blond I’d do anything for who can’t see anything past him.”

It was so clear, now.  So utterly clear what Spike had wanted from the very beginning.  What he’d tried to get from Xander, except Xander wasn’t good enough.  Because he was never good enough.

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, really?  Cause from this side of the sofa, not seeing too much to deny it.  You—god.  Is that why you started hanging out with me, Spike?  Because I was  _brooding?”_   Because after Anya and the accident, he was quieter, less brash.  Needier in some ways, but controlling, too.  A confidence that Spike had worked hard to bolster, although the groundwork was older.  Spike hadn’t even  _looked_  at Xander, not the way he used to look at girls, not until Xander had started locking bits of himself away.

“No!”  It wasn’t a shout, but it was harsher and louder than anything he’d heard from Spike in. . . in ever.  Leaping up, Spike whirled around to glare across the room, rage too big to be contained by on measly sofa-blockade.  “That’s not true!”

The anger stripped away the normal fear and hesitancy that Xander was used to seeing, leaving what he’d wanted: strong, powerful Spike, standing up for himself.  But now it hurt.  Not just the words, but everything.  The anguish.  The hate.  The way he looked like crap, covered with what was probably an old sweatshirt of Xander’s, the rest of him alternately white with bandages or bright pink with drying calamine.  His eyes were wide and rolling, his skin as flushed as it ever got even in the heat of sex, and his hands were trembling.  His hands were trembling. 

“I don’t compare you to him,” Spike repeated, breathing hard.

“No, probably not consciously,” he said as calmly as he could.  “You’re not that cruel, no matter how hard you try.  But there had to be a reason.  I used to hope that it was because you liked me.”  Their eyes met, Spike’s rage countered with Xander’s quiet bitterness.  “Maybe even loved me.  But no!  That’s too easy.  You picked me because I’m the closest you’ve found to  _him.”_

The loathing caught him by surprise—well, not really surprise.   _I don’t hate Angel.  Not anymore.  But dammit, that’s one more time he’s come between me and someone I love.  And I’m getting really tired of this.  Of_ everything.

“That’s what you  _wanted!”_   The shout echoed through the lobby, but neither of them could look away.  Now when blue eyes were bleeding yellow, rage a physical thing to be seen.  “You wanted me like that.  I did what you wanted.”

It was a mantra, the cadences of anger and hurt making the repetition obvious.  Xander wondered how often Spike had told himself just that.  How much he’d done with that phrase on his lips, stuffed inside his head.  How much he  _wouldn’t_  have done without it.

Xander shook his head.  “What I wanted,” he repeated.  The words were heavy and strange on his tongue.  “Spike, I never wanted you to—to  _change_  yourself for me.  I wanted  _you_.  For a while, even, I thought that’s what I had.”

The pattern was suddenly luminous in his mind, each step highlighted with neon brilliance.  Off-hand comments about Spike’s mouth, jokes made with teasing grins, taken too seriously.  A wistful desire to never have to cook again, gratitude that Spike was there to take over the job leading to a speculative, inward look.  Hundreds of things, tiny and inconsequential except if you were looking for them.  Believing in them.

Because you were trained to.  Because you needed to.

His hand twitched down towards the stake before he realized that he’d have no chance.  Angel wouldn’t just roll over and let himself be staked—and Spike would try and stop him, too.  He’d claim it was to help Xander, to try and save him from the pain a murderer felt, and it would probably be true.

Just not the whole truth.

“Did you ever—”  His voice broke, looking down at his reflection shining on the glossy, varnished wood of the front desk.  Even distorted and yellowed, the resemblance was there.  Bigger now than his scrawny high school days, broader and almost hefty looking.  Dark hair and eyes complimented the picture, his frozen expression a good replacement for mysterious brooding.  “Was it ever me?  When we were—was it ever me?”

 _Or was it always him in our bed?_

The question wasn’t immediately obvious to Spike, the confusion eating through the anger until a spark of realization appeared.  Understanding made his eyes widen, an expression of horror chasing over slackened features before it closed off completely.  Xander could  _see_  the defense mechanisms slam into place, almost hear the gears shifting in Spike’s head: the slumped body abruptly straightened, his old, manic energy dug up from whatever hole it’d been kept in, slid on like a mantle.

“Yeah?” Spike sneered.  “’Cos it was never Buffy with you, was it?  What’d you say before, about bottle-blonds?  Not the only one you’ve chased after, why should I be the only one in your bed?  Was I Cordelia, then?  Is that why you called me a  _shrew?_   Or was I Willow?  All sweet an’ innocent?”

His hips cocked out unconsciously, the old swagger reappearing as Spike warmed to this new role.  And it  _was_  a role, Xander knew that in his rational moments.  But rationality was hard to hold onto when the world was being yanked out one chunk at a time.

“Don’t forget to miss the complete lack of denial as you run through everyone I’ve ever said I fantasize about.  Notice, Spike, I  _did_  admit to you that I fantasized about them.  And, you know, here’s a funny thing: when I was with you, I was with  _you._   I never wanted anyone else  _but_  you and you—”  He had to turn away, couldn’t see the answer in Spike’s eyes, not for this.  Wasn’t even sure he wanted to hear it, but ever the Zeppo, he was a glutton for punishment.  “Was it  _ever_ —”

“You wanted me like that.”  The self-loathing was thick in the air and Xander wanted nothing more than to go over there and hold his lover.  Because everything was all right when he could hold Spike.  Everything.  “Your sweet little wifey.”

“My  _what?!”_

Spike looked smaller, prowling back and forth, without the black duster trailing behind him.  A child trying to act like a grownup and coming off as lonely and miserable.  “What the hell did you think I was, Harris?” he demanded, the words harsh but the tone aching.  “I clean your house, I cook your meals, I spend time with  _your_  friends.  I take care of your every fuckin’ _whim_ ; make sure you get seen to right an’ proper _._   You got another word for it?  Cause if I ain’t your wife then all I can come up with is  _slave._   You pick which fits best.”

“What—my—are you insane?  Did you hit your head somewhere?  My  _wife?”_   The word lodged itself deep in his gut, churning and rolling until Xander thought he was going to be sick.  Because maybe, just maybe, Spike was right.  “I never asked you to do any of that.   _You_  volunteered to do the household stuff when you moved back in.   _You_  chose to spend time with my friends—which, by the way, are your friends, too.  And if ‘seeing to me’ means what I think it does than maybe I’m glad we’re doing this.  Because I  _never_  want to be ‘seen to’, Spike.  Ever.”

Spike flinched a little, but continued gamely on.  “Oh, yeah, right.  You think I didn’t know how much of a kick you got, havin’ me at your beck’n’call?  Any position, any time you wanted—”

“No.  No, I won’t believe that.”  And he didn’t.  It was the only thing he clung to, in the maelstrom of his emotions.  He  _never_  did that, never wanted that.  “You wanted it just as much as I did, hell, you  _initiated_  it just as much as I did.  Uh-uh, Spike, try another one.  Because I will never believe that I was just. . .just  _using_  you.”

“Usin’ me?  You never did anythin’  _but.”_   Crossing to his side of the room in a move too fast for Xander to catch, Spike curled his lips in a smirk that seemed ancient, throwing back his shoulders and looking like a ragged, broken copy of the old Big Bad.  “Don’t you remember the car, Harris?  Remember how you were about to  _use_  me there?  Come on, then.  Let’s us have a go.”

“No.”

“What, you scared now?”  His eyes were glowing pure gold, now, emotions sparked and out of control.  His face transformed completely into that of a monster, the face he’d hidden from Xander no matter how many times he’d been asked not to.  “With the anger all gone and the heat of it coolin’, you too scared to finish what you started?  Finish it, whelp.  Come on.  What’s a good wife without a black eye from her hubby?”

No.  Never.  Xander backed up slowly, keeping his breathing slow and even.  It was because Spike was hurting.  He touched a nerve somewhere.  Something.  Because he couldn’t _possibly_  mean what Xander thought he meant.  He couldn’t.  He loved Spike and Spike. . . Spike had at least cared for him.  A little.

The furious, vampiric face that stared back at him contained nothing but hate.

“No,” Xander whispered.  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Aww, were you waiting for the ring to make it official?”  There was something wrong, something too crazy in his eyes, but Xander couldn’t understand what it was.  He could only hear the words that ripped apart everything he was.  “What about your own brats, would that make it better?  You could come home, bitchin’ how I spend all your hard-earned money on pretty frocks and trinkets I buy just for you.  ’Cos I’ve gotta keep you happy with me, don’t I now?  Stop you from runnin’ around, maybe bark at the kiddies?  And you’ll just lay one on me good.  Is  _that_  what you want, Harris?”

“No!”  Shoving away, Xander picked up the bottle and hurled it at the wall.  The glass shattered, spraying the desk and leaving an ugly gouge in the wall.  No one was sleeping now and Xander could only hope they weren’t listening to this, hiding in their rooms and praying for it to just  _end._   The way he had.  The way he’d sworn to never do to anyone else.

“I don’t want that.  I  _never_  wanted that.  And I haven’t forgotten the complete lack of transition, either, Spike.  We were talking about who was in our bed.  Our  _bed._   Not domestic-happy land.  But if you wanna do that, let’s do that.  I trusted you.”

 _I trusted you enough to love you._

“Aw, innit that sweet?” Spike taunted, sneer brittle and breaking.  His eyes were too bright and Xander could almost believe that Spike was about to cry—but that couldn’t be.  Because Spike obviously wanted out, so why would he cry?  He was getting what he wanted.  “What about me, huh?  I’m a  _vampire._   Yet here I am, arse-up for you whenever you bloody want—”

Enough. 

“No,” Xander said as calmly as he could.  Not loud, or forceful, but calm.  Controlled.  He supposed he should thank Giles for teaching him the trick.  “You don’t play this line with me, Spike.  I have never treated you like that and if that’s what you think than we should have done this months ago.  Fuck you, Spike.  I don’t deserve this.  You don’t get to use this.”

“Which means I got nothin’ left.”

Their eyes met just as Spike shifted back, the demon taking the crazy rage and fear wherever it went.  Blue eyes surrounded by thin lines of red, the skin around it swollen and puffy from more than just bruises.

It was an opening.  A tiny one.  “Spike, you have me.  I—”

Spike put his hand up, backing away so there was more distance between them.  He swallowed heavily, shoulders slumping back into the creature Xander was learning to hate.  Because it hated himself and everything else.

“I know,” Spike said eventually, words heavy and dull.  “You love me.  But that’s not enough, Xan.”

“Okay,” he said after gathering himself.  “Okay.  We—how about we adopt?”  The idea came out of nowhere, the words tumbling from his lips. “We could, Spike, I had Willow look into it.  She thinks it’s cute, but I thought maybe one day when I wasn’t such a kid and if you were willing and I  _was_  going to ask you about it before we did anything but I wanted to see if it was even  _possible_  before I brought it up and—”

“Don’t you see?”  The interruption was quiet, yanking away his energy like stopper in a tub.  “You’re  _human._   You should—you thought about kids?  The two of us?” 

The stunned, beatifically happy expression Spike quickly shuttered away only left him feeling worse.  Because he was  _right_ —and it still didn’t matter.

“Yeah,” he said numbly.  “You—you’d make a good dad.”  Spike wanted kids, they’d all known that.  The way he took care of Dawn, the wistful expression whenever Willow and Tara talked about kids of their own.  The way Angel had finally broken him.

 _How much of this is because you can’t be what you_ think _I want, Spike?  The things you wanted and won’t let yourself have?_   He didn’t say that, though.  Because it didn’t matter.  Spike didn’t want him, had never wanted him, and he wasn’t going to fight anymore.

“I’m a  _vampire_ , Xan.”  He never should have told him.  Never should have dangled that precious hope.  Spike sounded like a corpse, now, dry and dusty.  “I don’t do kids.  I don’t do choice two-bedroom apartments in the good part of town.  I don’t do normal.  And both of us are just fooling ourselves if we stay like this.  All my unlife, I’ve lived the things I never could when I was human.  But this isn’t living, Xan.  This is dying.”

And there it was.  The ball in his stomach turned to stone, dragging at him so he probably looked as worn and as old as Spike.  The final straw, the broken camel back.  Shattered.  His knees trembled but he didn’t fall because he knew that he couldn’t, not yet.  Because the old habits were still there, the old love, and if he broke down now, then Spike would do worse.  So he was strong.  Stayed standing while the world whirled at supersonic speed, shredding everything he’d ever wanted.

“You’re breaking up with me.”

Spike flashed a hint of a smile, lost eyes empty.  “Yeah.  I think I am.”

He grabbed onto the table, still convinced that he had to look strong.  Air felt like glass shards in his mouth, tearing at his throat with razor edges.  He swallowed them down, wishing he could taste the metallic tang of his own blood—but that was dangerous.  It always was.

He had to get out of here.  Pulling the glass shard out of his leg hurt, the physical pain flaring through nerves that already felt raw.  The scent of blood made Spike sink deeper into himself.  “Was it ever me?”

Spike turned his face away.

The world went white.

“Right,” he managed hoarsely.  “That’s what I thought.”  He was not going to cry.  Had to stay strong.  Had to.  “I used to think it was Drusilla,” he said absently.  “That when you looked at me, you saw her.  I guess it was pretty much the same thing, wasn’t it.”

“A bit like, yeah.”  Dru was just another substitute, but the result was the same.  Spike had sacrificed himself for her, become everything she needed and wanted.  When she’d no longer wanted  _him_  anymore, Spike had been devastated.

Just like Xander.

Walking was difficult, forcing his body through molasses on legs that felt broken, but he did it.  Climbed the stairs with a death-grip on the railing, mentally reminding himself that he could do this.  He was Xander.  This was what he always did, when the ones he loved could not.  He moved on.  He picked up the pieces.

Back in their room—Spike’s room—Xander packed.  The books they’d brought went into the low bookcase and he made notes of Spike’s favorites to send down.  Same with the portable CD player and the CD’s lying next to them.  The random trinkets that Spike picked up, like the ivory-handled razor and his favorite vibrator, were placed the way Spike would have arranged them.  Spike’s clothes were hung, especially the bag that lay on the bed.  He didn’t want the leather pants to get a crease.

The sheets were messed up since Spike hated a made bed, the curtains drawn closed but with the farthest window left open so the air would sift through the room.  The mirror was covered with the silken black cloth folded up next it.  A gray candle was lit and for once, Xander could almost smell whatever it was that Spike said it was scented with.  Rifling through his wallet and pants pockets, Xander came up with three hundred dollars in cash.  He placed that on the dresser, right in front of the covered mirror.

His own clothes he threw in the bag haphazardly, not concentrating on anything but the things he knew Spike would like and would want to keep. 

 _Except me.  He won’t keep me._  

None of the things he’d bought, not even the gifts for the gang back home, were packed.  When— _if_ —Spike ever visited, he could give them.  Xander didn’t care.

Slinging the half-empty bag over his shoulder, he went back down the hallway and downstairs.  Only a little longer, now.  Once he was in the car.  After he put the top up.

Then he was going away from LA.  Where didn’t matter, but he couldn’t stay here a minute longer than he had to.  This was Angel’s place.

He was waiting at the foot of the stairs.

“Hey, Angel,” Xander greeted with forced flippancy.  “Congratulations.  Great job.  Kudos.”

Eyes as dark as his own blinked at him in surprise, brows quirking in confusion before urgency made him shake it off.  “Xander, wait.  We’ll talk about this, we’ll—”

“We talked.  Don’t tell me you didn’t listen to every word.”  He had to find his keys.  If he couldn’t find them, he’d just take a bus somewhere, arrange for his car to be towed, but he really didn’t want to do that.  Or maybe he did?  The car would smell like Spike, now, and—

He had to find his keys.

“No, I heard.  And you’re wrong, you know that—”

“He’s all growed up, Angel.  He knows where I live.” 

His keys were in his jacket pocket.  Gathering up the few things he was taking, Xander kept his attention on Angel’s Neanderthal expression: the one where you could see the effort behind the nice, sympathetic look.  The one that made the girls swoon faster than Fyarl-mucus hardened in the sun.

Xander hated that look.

“Xander—”

The pleading nearly undid him but the continued silence from the lobby convinced him that he was right.  “Take care of him,” he whispered.  “Please.”

Eyes straight ahead, Xander walked out the door.


	9. Chapter 9

Xander got up every morning.  He showered and shaved, brushed his teeth and pulled on clothing.  He ate breakfast, mostly cereal, but sometimes he splurged and had oatmeal.  Never anything else.  He gathered his things for work and opened the door.

Then he stopped, and listened:

To Mrs. Rodriguez down the hall, who noisily shepherded her four kids off to school, full of shouts and kisses and children making ‘yuck’ noises.  He listened to the nameless couple two doors down, who never spoke outside of their apartment, but who’s thumps and groans and operatic music spoke for them quite nicely.  He listened to the floor above, as Mr. and Mrs. Barus had their usual screaming fight about the morning—cold, hot, wet, dry—and then just as loudly made up.  Xander listened to all of this, and then locked his door behind him.

At work, he did his job with his customary skill and efficiency.  He spoke when spoken to, even laughed and joked when he was in a crowd.  He never responded to the careful overtures of several people, or the more blunt demands of many more.  He just did his job.  Some nights, after work, he went to the Magic Box, but more often he went home.  Ate dinner, watched tv, went to sleep, and then did the whole thing all over again.

On weekends, he woke up a little later and cleaned his apartment from top to bottom.  It was always spotless, but Xander still cleaned every Saturday until it nearly glowed with polish, not a single item of clutter to make it feel lived in or homey.  The landlord often used Xander’s apartment to show off the building now, because it always felt empty and ready to be moved in to.  After cleaning, Xander went shopping for whatever he needed that week.  He would call the Magic Box, just to make sure there were no major problems that needed attention, and then, since there usually weren’t, he would lock the door to his apartment, turn on something low and wordless, and carve.

At first, he carved stakes.  This would have worried his friends, who watched as closely as they could, except the stakes were always meant for Buffy’s hand, and were never more than very functional, very balanced and sharp stakes, the kind she stocked for normal patrols.  After he’d carved enough stakes that even if Buffy allowed each one to dust with the vampire she was killing, she’d still have enough for the next year or more, he started doing other things.  The lumberyard called Xander their most valued customer and always made sure he had everything he asked for.  One enterprising manager even created the Xander Alcove, where the woods Xander wanted were stocked so he could go there at any hour of the day or night and find what he wanted. 

He didn’t keep any of the things he made, as far as anyone else knew.  For Giles, he made an ornate chair, designed with scrolls that gave the impression of curled pages and arcane symbols.  Anya’s half-muttered comment about the state of tables at the Magic Box prompted two new ones custom made for her.  Chests of varying sizes and carved with sun-bursts were presented to Dawn, for her clothes and jewelry.  When Buffy admired the complicated spice rack with wheels and levers he’d made for Willow and Tara, she was given one a week later to hold her innumerable pairs of shoes.

He did this for nearly a month.

The knock started out polite, but after it was ignored three times, it became an extremely  _un_ polite meeting of knuckles on wood.  When that still provoked no response, Willow huffed and grumbled and dug out the key Xander must not have remembered he’d given her, because it turned in the lock easily enough, allowing the delegation to file in behind her.

They’d been to the apartment a few times since Xander’s return, but those were quick, fleeting glimpses as Xander ushered them out after grabbing whatever item he needed.  They’d never just stood there, trying to get the feel of a place that used to be warm and welcoming, full of laughter and the ever-present smell of sex that  _never_  seemed to fade away.

Now it smelled faintly of wood shavings.  And despite the uncovered windows letting in the spring sunshine, it felt very cold inside.

Willow crossed her arms.  “Xander Harris I know you’re in here.  We want to talk to you.”

Buffy and Anya had already started searching the apartment, starting in the two most obvious places.  Buffy took the kitchen, claiming she could wrest away any food from Xander’s clutching hands if she needed to.  Anya took the bathroom, since she’d already seen it all before and she knew how to unlock the door, anyway.  Tara stuck by Willow, studying the room and easing her hand into Willow’s.  It felt desolate in Xander’s home.  Like a dead thing just waiting to stop.

“Xander?  Where the—there you are.”  Anya’s discovery brought all four girls into the bedroom, peaking over her shoulders to stare into the room.  It was the only room that was dark, since the blackout curtains remained drawn and locked down, but light from the rest of the apartment cut into some of the gloom, letting them make out shapes and shadows and a few shimmering reflections.

Xander lay in the center of his bed.  He wasn’t asleep any longer, but the way he blinked and squinted his eyes meant he had been until Anya opened the door.  He eased himself into a sitting position, self-consciously tugging on his undershirt so it went down past the covers he kept around his waist.

“Get up, Xander.  We want to talk to you.  And stop acting virtuous—it’s not like none of us haven’t seen it before.”

Buffy made a small noise.  _“I’ve_ never seen it,” she said faintly.  “And if Tara and Willow have, please don’t tell me?”

“I have,” Willow said grimly.  “Jesse pulled his pants down when we were swimming, one year.  He didn’t know I was still there.  And I know you’re wearing boxers, mister, so don’t think you can use that excuse.  Get dressed and get out here.  Now.”

The door shut behind them with a small click, not doing a thing to muffle Anya when she asked, “Wait a minute,  _none_  of you have ever seen Xander’s penis?  I thought you had!”

“Anya!” Buffy snapped, trying desperately to use anger to cover up the slight pout.  “When would we have seen Xander’s—thing?  You’re the only one who dated him!”

“Yes, but I thought you and he—when you came back from the dead, are you telling me you  _never_  tried to sleep with Xander?  That’s what you  _told_  all of—”

“Yeah right, like Spike would’ve—”

Silence descended abruptly.  Xander walked into the living room a few moments later, dressed in jeans and a loose t-shirt, heading directly to the kitchen to make coffee.  He didn’t seem to notice the four girls perched upon various seats in his apartment, all of them watching him with huge, solemn eyes.  He just made coffee.  One cup’s worth.

Now that Xander was there, up and awake and ostensibly ready to listen to the wisdom his four female friends had to offer, none of them could think of anything to say.  They looked at each other, silently begging someone else to start talking because once someone started, they’d know what to do to make Xander see reason.  They  _had_  to, because this quiet, focused Xander wasn’t anything like the boy they loved.

Sipping from a mug that proudly declared him to be the best employee ever, Xander leaned against the doorless jamb of the kitchen.  “Is this going to take long?” he asked in a diffident voice.  “I’ve got an appointment in an hour.  Hair cut.”

Spike never let anyone else but him cut Xander’s hair.  That usually meant it was trimmed only when it was too ragged and getting in his eyes, something they quarreled about—who, and when, and how much—constantly.  It was an ongoing feud anyone who spent more than two seconds in their presence was asked to give an opinion about.  Not that either of them ever cared about the opinion, once it was given.

“All right.  That’s enough.”  Anya stood up right in front of Xander, arms crossed and head back to look him in the eye.  “You’re miserable.  Stop it.”

Xander took another sip of coffee and tilted his head, listening.  The Barus’ upstairs were starting their normal Saturday morning war—the toilet seat, this time, which meant Mr. Barus had been out drinking the night before.  He smiled, just a little.  Those two were so predictable.  “I’m fine.”

Four voices immediately erupted at once.

  “You are not fine, you’re  _miserable,”_  Anya repeated, “and it’s bothering me.  I don’t like to see you so miserable.  So stop it.  I don’t like feeling guilty for something I wasn’t even part of.”

“Oh, please,” came hard on Anya’s comment, “if that’s fine, Xand, then I’m—I’m the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man!”  The comparison momentarily flustered Buffy, but she plowed on ahead gamely, “And yes, okay, I watched  _GhostBusters_  last night, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.  You aren’t  _fine_ , and as your friends, we want to help you.  So we’re taking you to the Bronze tonight to shake your groove thang, and maybe find another gorgeous guy—not that anything’s wrong with a girl, you know—and you are not arguing.  I’ll  _carry_  you there, if I have to.”

“Xander LaVelle Harris, I’ve known you all my life and you are  _not_  fine.”  Thunder and storm clouds danced on Willow’s furrowed brow, but her eyes were worried and scared.  “You’re moping.  You’re moping and depressed and that’s not your fault because—because it’s not, but Xander, sweety, we want to help you.  You won’t let us come over anymore, you don’t hang out at the Box, and everybody at work says you’re acting like a zombie.  Please let us help you, okay?  We love you, Xander, we just want to help.”

“I-I’ve talked with Angel, Xander,” was Tara’s mostly unheard contribution.  “A-and Spike’s not doing any better than you.”

Xander waited until all four women had their say, some how managing to look like he was following each bit of scolding, despite the wall of overlapping words and emotions.  Four pairs of eyes glared at him, four pairs of arms firmly crossed or balanced on hips, and all of them angry because they were so worried.  He sighed.  “I’m fine.  Really.  Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have things I need to do.  Let me know when you want me at the Bronze.”

 _Not_  the response any of them had expected, not even Buffy, who looked like she was swallowing back preplanned conditions the way someone might swallow down frogs.  Xander smiled at them—it wasn’t a fake smile, it wasn’t the smile of a brave little toaster, but it wasn’t a really  _happy_  smile, either—and gestured with his coffee mug toward the door.

The Make Xander Feel Better campaign wasn’t off to a great start.

“Can I talk to you?” Tara asked suddenly.  “Privately?  Willow, sweety, why don’t you make eggs?”  She followed Xander into the bedroom without waiting for an answer, shutting the door behind her.

Xander stood in the center of the room, staring into his coffee cup.  “How is he?”

Tara didn’t smile, even though Xander kept his back to her, but it was a near thing.  “Not good.  Cordelia says she’s ready to kick him in the head.  He won’t leave Angel’s side except when Angel makes him, and when he does. . . well, he’s just as ‘fine’ as you are.”

“Good.  I’m happy Angel’s taking care of him.  He needs—I’m glad.”

Tara didn’t miss the break in Xander’s voice, or the way he heard things she clearly hadn’t said.  Her call to Angel had come after Willow’s and Buffy’s frantic, angry arguments with Angel, demanding that Spike be sent back home, just so Buffy could stake him the way the bastard deserved.  Not that Buffy really meant that, and everyone knew it—but watching Xander act so normal when he clearly wasn’t. . . no one was really sure how to handle that.  Xander never asked for help with his relationships, and never indicated he’d been willing to receive it.

“I didn’t say that, Xander.”  Her voice was low, mixing in with the darkness of the room; not trying to break through, because that wouldn’t work.  This wasn’t the darkness of depression, the kind she herself took shelter in when she needed to hide from things.  This was punishment.  Xander stayed here, in this apartment, in this  _room_ , because he was punishing himself with the memories of Spike.  “Angel’s getting pretty fed up with him, actually.  Cordy said that he’s taken to kicking Spike around the room.”

A flare of outrage squared slumped shoulders, but only for an instant.  “He’s his Sire.  He can do whatever he wants.”

Tara knew that whatever this was, it had a great deal to do with the concept of Sires, and of Angel in particular.  She wasn’t sure of  _what_  yet, but she was planning on calling Angel that afternoon with a lot of questions.  Because he was the only one who was going to be able to fix this.  Probably.  Well, she was pretty sure, if she could just convince him that he had to.

“Spike misses you.  You left a shirt down there. . . Cordy says he carries it around like a security blanket.  She says it’s kind of cute, actually, watching the Big Bad act like a three year old.”  Xander didn’t respond to that, but Tara wasn’t expecting him to.  Not when there were thumps coming from upstairs that were unmistakable, and the low grind of some kind of machinery providing a weird kind of rhythm.  “She says that if things don’t get better soon, though, she’s going to bring Spike back up here, no matter what Angel says.”

“No.”

Tara ignored the flat denial.  “It’s a funny thing, kids and parents.  We’re so anxious to grow up and get away from our parents—until we actually are.  Then we just want them back.”  She’d done her research, carefully checking things and talking a lot with Giles before she did anything.  She talked with Anya a lot, too, because Anya understood Spike very well.  “We’ll do anything to have what we thought we’d never want again.”

“Yeah, cause I’m dying to return to the basement.”  Xander put his mug down, turning to look at her for the first time.  Even in the gloom, Tara could see his eyes—bloodshot and glassy, with an edge of despair he wouldn’t let anyone else see.  “Look, Tara, I know you want to help, but—”

“Are you willing to give up that easily?” she interrupted.  “Because you had  _one_  fight, even a really messy a-and complicated fight like this one, you’re going to let him go?”

For a moment, she thought she had him—his breathing went up and she could see anger curling his lip. . . but then it just disappeared.  “I’ve been fighting for him for months now,” Xander said, using the same tone as he had outside in the living room.  “He doesn’t want to be won.”

Despite repeatedly asking, Spike refused to speak with Tara, relying on Angel to communicate what he wanted to say.  He hadn’t even responded to Cordy’s barb that relying on Angel for _any_  kind of communication was a nuclear accident waiting to happen.  Just folded himself at his Sire’s feet, while Angel sighed and buried his head in his hands.

Which was why Willow and Tara had arranged to travel down to L.A. Sunday afternoon.

“Xander.”  It should’ve been easy to do this, but it wasn’t.  Laying her hand on Xander’s arm, hoping he wasn’t going to jerk away from her, was one of the hardest things she’d ever done.  “He doesn’t know he  _can_  be won.”

* * *

Angel slammed into the wall, the prone form in front of him acting as a shock absorber.  He grunted a little as he backed up, smearing a drop of blood down his arm.  “Is that all you’re going to do?” he asked.

Spike collapsed onto the ground, forehead touching his knees, arms wrapped around his shins.  His head twitched a little, not quite a shake but definitely not a nod.

Angel nodded and picked up one of the weights stacked on the side of the room.  It made a hollow  _thunking_  sound when it slammed into the side of Spike’s head, sending the vampire sprawling face-first onto the mat.  “You know Spike, I’m a little tired of this.  I said I’d give you a hand, maybe try to help you, but I’m not really seeing any effort on your part.”

Pulling himself onto shaking arms, Spike retreated to his prior position—though he did keep his head, this time, to watch Angel.   He didn’t say anything.

“You’re never quiet, Spike.  It’s unnatural.”  No response, and Angel gave up trying the but-really-I’m-not-Angelus track and slumped against the opposite wall.  The room was splattered with blood—all Spike’s—and over half of the training weapons were scattered around the floor, battered and in some cases, broken.  Spike wasn’t fighting back, but that didn’t mean he was suicidal.  Yet.  “Say something!”

“No.”

The tone was mulish, childishly stubborn and aching for some kind of relief.  Angel felt something in his chest tighten at the first word he’d dragged out of Spike since Xander left.  This Spike wasn’t the boy he’d broken so many years ago—because he’d never really broken William, just forced Spike into existence to distract Angelus.  No, Spike had done the breaking all on his own.  “Gonna play games with me, boy?”

That produced a ghost of a smile.  Angel slid all the way down to the floor, stretching his legs out in front of him.  He was still panting, the artificial sound of wind whistling in useless lungs always strangely calming after a fight.  He knew what to do, of course.  He knew what Spike wanted.  It’d taken him this entire time—nearly a month since Xander’s departure—to gather up enough courage to do it.  He’d always assumed that a few days of separation would send Spike hurrying back to his lover, no involvement from Angel necessary.

That morning, Cordelia had complained about Spike trying to ‘help’ her again, organizing all the files in a such a way that she couldn’t find anything.  Granted, Spike’s wacky system was just the alphabet, but Angel wasn’t going to win a Cordy-argument.  So he’d taken Spike into the basement to try and knock some sense into the bleached head, resulting in this.

“Spike. . .  Childe.”

Spike’s head rose fully, shadows from the bare light bulb highlighting the slightly crooked path of his nose.  One eye was completely swallowed up in grey, reflected light blinding Angel’s attempts to see into the right—it made Spike look eerie, a physical representation of what they all knew Spike was now: a body with nothing inside.

“Sire?”

Angel sighed, rubbing his face to rid himself the image of an eyeless Spike.  “Childe, talk to me.”

“Yes, Sire.”

There was no willingness in those words, not really.  But Sire had spoken, and Sire must be obeyed—that was the earliest lesson Angelus had beaten into a then-brown-haired head, and it would override anything else.  “Why did you do it?”

“Because it was right,” Spike said, eyes fastened on the floor in front of his bare feet.  No need to ask what Angel was talking about—conversations with Spike never featured a different topic.

“It was right to hurt him like that?  To deny Xander—to deny  _both_  of you—what you wanted?”

“Not about what I wanted, Sire.  Not even what—what he wanted.”  Spike’s voice was so low it was almost a whisper, like if he spoke too loudly he’d have to really hear the conversation.  Hear how final it sounded.  “It was right.”

“And you think that Xander will just move on?  That he’ll get over you, and find someone else?  Have the two point four kids and the minivan?  While you stay down here in the dark, wasting away when you could’ve had a  _chance?”_

It wasn’t until the words were out of his mouth that he heard how they sounded.  Spike hadn’t responded yet, but Angel wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.  Bad, since Angel had asked a direct question and as Sire must be obeyed.

But good, because Angel really didn’t need to be told his kettle was just as black as any pot.

The silence settled heavy and thick over the two of them, not even the sound of breathing to disturb their thoughts.  Two immortal creatures, lonely and alone, and not because they had to be.  Not because they hadn’t been given ways to at least find comfort in their darkness. 

“Would you change your mind?” Spike asked eventually.  “Do it different, now?”

“My situation and yours are—”

A flash of the old Spike peeked out with the utter derision Spike tossed Angel’s way.  “Goes both ways, you know,” he said, “this Sire thing.  Don’t lie to me, all right?  This’ll go the better, if you don’t.”

“You don’t want to  _be_  here, Spike!  Don’t sneer at me and tell me I don’t know you well enough to know if you do or not, either.  I know you that well.  There’s no reason for you here, and you haven’t stayed anywhere without one.”

“So there’s a reason for me with him, is there?  And you never answered my question. . . Sire.”

“I don’t have to answer your questions, Childe,” Angel growled, hand tensing around a nearby staff.  “And of course there’s a reason for you to be there—he loves you.”

Spike leaned forward out of the glare of the lightbulb, his face still marked with shadow but no longer empty of personality.  He met Angel’s gaze squarely, something bleak and broken inside his eyes making Angel shiver.  “Answer my questions, then,” Spike said clearly.  “Would you do it differently now?  Stick around, just for love?”

“You don’t have a soul.  You don’t have a  _curse!”_  Angel exploded, on his feet, staff poised to hurl into Spike’s. . . well, kneecaps given his current position.  “It was different!”

“Vampire.  Human.  Both in love, and wanting to make it work.  Not seeing a lot of differences.”  Again, the pause was as loud and as sharp a slap.  “Sire.”

“What I did was—”  The best he could do for both him and Buffy.  The right thing.  The  _only_  real option they had.  The best thing for Buffy.  What the situation demanded.

Selfish.  Cowardly.  Wrong.

Angel sat back down.

Willow and Tara found them like that, both staring moodily at the floor, brooding in their own individual worlds.  “Angel.  Spike.”  The glance Willow shot towards Spike was cold and hard, the breeze chilling Angel as it winged past.  “Cordy said you were down here trying to beat some sense into Spike.  Is it working?”

“Not really.”

“Want me to help?”  The almost-hostility in her voice was surprising.  Angel thought that Willow and the others had accepted Spike and trusted him—it’d certainly seemed that way, from what Xander had described.

“I think I’ve got it covered.  Can I. . .?”

“Cordelia said we could come down,” Tara said, clasping Willow’s hand.  She looked nervous, but she smelled determined, lavender and roses with a hint of thorn underneath.  “We w-want to talk with Spike.”

“Ah.”  Angel knew he should stay, that as Spike’s acknowledged Sire, anything they wanted Spike to do would have to be run past him first.  “I’ll just be—”

“Sit!”  Willow didn’t even glance at him, certain that she’d be obeyed.  “Were you trying to kill him?” she asked Spike.  “To rip him into shreds just so you could be happy?”

Tara and Angel exchanged a quick glance, confirming that no, Xander wasn’t ripped into shreds or dying, and that Spike wasn’t anything  _resembling_  happy.  “Willow, maybe this isn’t the best way to—”

“He knows not to hurt my friends.”  Willows voice had always been soft and fuzzy, pink like the fabric of Buffy’s stuffed pig.  Even the few times Angel had heard her issue orders, the crispness had never muffled the caring and friendliness underneath.

Except now, when Willow sounded deadly.

“Willow.”  Tara tugged at her girlfriend’s hand, finally making Willow look away from Spike’s slumped posture.  “Spike’s our friend, too.”

Letting out a long sigh, Willow slumped and leaned against Tara.  “I know.  I just. . . hey, you’re bleeding!”  Suddenly Angel was the recipient of Willow’s anger and not happy about it.  “Why is Spike bleeding, Angel?”

“Um, because I was trying to beat some sense into him?”

“Very funny.  Hang on, lemme go get some bandages and stuff from Cordy.”

The room seemed smaller when Willow disappeared up the stairs, muttering under her breath about stupid vampires and stupider men.  “She, um, means well,” Tara said.

Angel knew.  He was actually grateful the two of them were there—Willow was someone who knew Xander better than anyone, and even in this short time Angel could see how much Tara cared about Spike.  It wasn’t hard to guess that Spike reciprocated those feelings—strongly.  He was actually looking at the blonde girl, a huge feat for someone who hadn’t acknowledged anyone but Angel for weeks.

“Hey, Spike.  How’re you doing?”

Spike flicked a glance towards Angel.  Feeling sick, Angel nodded and then closed his eyes.  He wasn’t going to let Spike play that game anymore.  “Sore,” Spike said, still in that low, sad voice.  “Bit tired.”

“You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping.”

He wasn’t, something Angel knew for a fact.  Every night, Spike would try and crawl into Angel’s bed.  The first night, Angel had let him, figuring he could try and offer some kind of comfort.  That had been the wrong thing to do.  Spike had tried to give himself to Angel, going as far as prostrating himself in a way that  _Angelus_  had loved.  It sickened Angel.  He’d been forced to chain Spike to the other side of the bed to make him stop.  The second night Spike hadn’t tried sex, but the almost wistful expression on haggard features was even worse.  With or without sex, by allowing Spike access, Angel was giving him  _hope._   That somehow Angel accepted Spike; that if he stayed, Angel—Sire—would want  _him_.  The damage had already been done, by the time Angel understood.  If Spike didn’t sleep in his bed, he hunched himself into the corner of Angel’s room and just stared.

Tara approached Spike cautiously, hands up and hovering like he was a wounded animal that might attack if threatened.  “He’s back at work,” she continued, voice slow and steady.  “He’s doing a lot of wood-working, too, in his free time.  He doesn’t hang out with us much anymore, though, unless we tell him we need him to.  Just gets up, goes to work, and comes back home.”

“So he’s good, then.”

Tara frowned, halting a few feet from where Spike sat.  Her skirts brushed against the floor as she knelt, stirring dust and picking up a wet spot of what Angel hoped wasn’t blood.  “You know that’s not true, Spike.  He misses you.”

“He’ll get over it.”

Willow didn’t say anything when she came back, handing over antiseptic and gauze before tugging at Spike’s shirt.  He let her manhandle him, body lax and pliant for whatever she or Tara wanted.  “Of course he will.  He’ll get over it, Spike, because he has people who love him and eventually that’ll be enough for him again.”  Willow bandaged the worst of the cuts, tsking over the bruise on his face, adding, “But it shouldn’t  _have_  to be enough, Spike.  That’s the point.”

Angel could’ve told them this line of reasoning wouldn’t work.  He’d tried already, although he hadn’t mentioned that yeah, Xander would get over it.  Humans were resilient creatures, and Angel had experienced just how resilient Xander could be.  Usually at the worst times, but that didn’t matter here.  “So you don’t think he’ll find someone else?”

Tara caught his meaning.  “He’ll settle.  But it won’t be what he wants.”  Spike the mannequin didn’t move under her steady gaze.  “Spike?  Can you answer something for me?”

Angel glared a warning across the room.

“What do  _you_  want?”

The room smelled of old sweat, staining the concrete floor and worked into the wood of various hafts.  Angel concentrated on that smell, identifying each and every person so Spike couldn’t use him as an excuse.  His Childe was bruised and heart-sore, and Angel could feel the aura coming from Willow’s lover: soft as swaddling cloth and as intimate, wrapping around with a mother’s loving touch.  He wasn’t sure if it was magic or something else, but in the end, it didn’t matter.

“Free.  I want to be free.”

* * *

Wesley accepted the book with a small frown.  “Forgive me, but can you please explain what we’re doing again?”

“Yeah, me too?  Cause we have books at home.”  Willow didn’t look up from her tome, yellowed pages staining her fingers.  “We have  _cleaner_  books.”

“Yes, but you don’t have  _me_  in Sunnydale,” Angel explained.  Again.

Gunn, secure in his lack of research status, glanced up from honing the hub-cap ax.  “You too good for cars now?  Or is your hunk in the shop again?”

“My car is fine.  And I’m  _going_  to Sunnydale.  That isn’t the point.”  Angel ignored the glances exchanged around him.  He knew it was here somewhere, if he could find the damned thing, and then Spike would be permanently out of his life, never to return, and he could happily ignore him for the next few centuries, or maybe just forever.

Angel totally dismissed how uncomfortable that made him.

“So what  _is_  the point, Angel?” Wesley asked again.  “I’m not even certain I know what I’m looking for.”

Angel did not want to explain this all again.  If he didn’t have to explain it, then he wouldn’t have to think about how much he  _didn’t_  want to do this.  Fortunately, Tara’s return offered the perfect distraction.  “How’s Spike?”

“He’s sleeping.  You’ll have to carry him, probably, to the car.  He’ll be out f-for a while.” 

It was purely the aesthetic that caught Angel’s eye as Tara settled down at her lover’s side, shoulders touching and skirts puddling into a brown green swirl.  They looked happy together.  Angel remembered the last time he’d seen happiness like that and redoubled his efforts.  This  _had_  to work.  Because he wasn’t going to put up with Spike trying to crawl into his bed for the rest of his unlife.  “Good.  That’s good.  That’ll make this go easier.”

Wesley’s exasperated question was cut off by an upraised hand.  Cordy had her glare on, and every man in the room flinched in preparation.  “Angel.  Words of one syllable, now.  What are we doing?  And how will this help Xander?”

“It won’t help Xander.  Not really.”  Angel tuned out the resulting babble.  He didn’t want to hear them dissect something none of them understood.

The book in front of him held more sketches than notes—images of a life and time that Angel had tried hard to forget.  Pictures of Spike, dark hair held in a messy ponytail, smiling up at something Dru had just seen.  Spread out against a wall, the lash marks on Spike’s back so carefully drawn that they almost seemed to drip down the page.  It looked like a Rodin image, grotesque in every way, and done so intentionally.  Angel remembered that night and why he’d been so meticulous in each pen-stroke.  He remembered, because that was when Angelus had finally started asking about the bond of a Sire and Childe.

Granted, at the time, it was to learn how to control a wayward brat that wouldn’t heel to anyone but a mad woman who didn’t know how to say the words.  But he’d still learned, and Angel was certain there’d be something in his findings to use.  There had to be.

Cordelia was tapping her foot, expression clearly explaining just what she thought of Angel’s evasion.  “It  _won’t_  help Xander?  So why are we all scrambling around like this was a paid case, which, by the way, it  _isn’t._   Cut the cryptic-talk, Angel.  What are you doing?”

“Undoing.  What I should’ve never done in the first place.”  When Cordelia opened her mouth again, Angel suppressed a growl.  “Enough.  I’m not telling you anymore.  If you don’t want to help research, fine, take the rest of the day off.  My treat.”

“You aren’t our boss anymore,” she snapped.  But she took the book Willow handed her and started to read.

Angel flipped through the journal, noting a few things that might help and then reverently closing it and putting it to one side.  He only had two or three left.  “Tara, Willow.  Why don’t you two drive back up?  I’ll join you tonight.”

“Not without Spike.  I can carry him too, you know.  Okay, I think I can without dragging him, since he’s kinda a lot heavier than a pencil, but we’ll manage!”  The mulish set to Willow’s lips meant she was protecting her friend—an admirable quality, but Angel had yet to make any of them understand that it wasn’t Xander who needed it.  “He needs to be  _home.”_

Angel just shook his head.  “As far as Spike’s concerned, Willow, he  _is_  home.”

* * *

Giles hung up the phone, glancing over at the girls clustered around the table.  Books were spread open, some of the pages gleaming faintly in the light, the lacquer faded over the centuries but still visible to the naked eye.  Anya was flitting around the room, gathering the materials Angel had requested and piling them neatly on the counter while Buffy sat on the table, kicking her heels back and forth and flipping through a magazine.  She had wisely suggested that since there was nothing to kill, perhaps she should sit this one out.  Anya had immediately agreed, charming smile reminding Buffy that she was  _not_  forgiven for dropping a vial of unicorn blood, priced at several hundred dollars and difficult to obtain.

“You don’t seem very surprised, my dear,” Giles said mildly.  His was reading a book Angel had suggested for examples of how things should be laid out.  It was written in Kyprish and frustrating to translate, mocking him with its pristine white pages.  Magicked to withstand the vagaries of age, it was also magicked to be impossible to read.  Or so Giles suspected.  “In fact, you seem to have expected it.”

Anya didn’t bother to look up.  “Magic is just ritual repeated enough times to give it otherworldly meaning.”

Buffy blinked, glancing between the two of them in confusion.  There had been any number of conversations that began this exact way, although usually Buffy just waited for enough key words before speaking.  “And this relates to Xander how?”

“It doesn’t.  Well, it does in that it relates to—never mind.  Yes, Rupert, I was expecting this, or something like it.  I  _am_  surprised that Angel’s agreeing to it.  I didn’t think he’d want to accept that much responsibility.”

Buffy bristled at the implied insult, but fortunately didn’t try and defend her ex-boyfriend.  Fortunately, because Giles knew as well as Buffy did that Anya was correct—at least when it came to vampiric responsibilities.  “So,” Buffy continued, “there’s a ritual and poof, Xander and Spike are back together?  And I get to stop feeling bad for Spike?”

Giles nodded.  “It seems so, yes.  It probably won’t be quite that simple, however.  Angel wasn’t very forthcoming.”

“Angel doesn’t really know what he’s doing, either,” Anya pointed out with a shrug.  “He just knows it needs to be done, so he’ll figure out how.”  She headed behind the counter, gently pushing Giles out of the way so she could check their supply of the more potent herbs.  Lifting one packet released an almost sulphurous scent into the air,  making the other occupants of the room gag.  “There won’t be any poofing, I don’t think.  Probably a lot of screaming, though.  Honey, did we get the order of Burmese crystals?  They’ll probably need that as a focusing-agent.  I hope Angel brought his credit card, because I’m not giving him a discount.  He’s not family.”

The firm way she said that caught Giles’ attention.  “I didn’t know we had a family discount, Anya.”  He carefully didn’t mention Willow, since the truce between those two stubborn ladies was cautious at best.

Anya gave him a  _look._   “Rupert, you know I still care for Xander.  Of course he gets the family discount.”

If Xander was included, then Spike was by default.  She’d always been supportive of the relationship, one of the reasons that Giles himself had stopped trying to quietly sabotage it.  Not that he’d been very successful, since his darling had caught him every time.  “So Xander and Spike, but not Angel?”

“Of course.  That’s the point.”

The point?  Giles watched as Anya began mixing several common herbs into a compound that glowed faintly.  “Anya, what are you talking about?  All Angel said was he was going to do a binding ritual and—and you’re adding black pepper which is hardly ever used in binding spells.”

“Because Angel will need it.  And if not, I can throw it at Xander and make him sneeze.  He’s very cute when he sneezes.”

“She’s  _your_  girlfriend,” Buffy said when Giles looked at her.  “You translate.”

Anya glared at them both, fists planted on her hips in exasperation.  “There’s nothing to translate!  Angel comes, does the ritual, and then he goes away.  After that, well, we’ll see after Spike wakes up.  Now stop pestering me for answers I can’t give you and go prepare the backroom.  Spike will feel comfortable there, and Angel won’t, which is good.  I don’t think I  _like_ Angel.”

Giles knew that asking anything now would only make her angry, so he went into the training room obediently.  It was just typical that  _his_  store would be used.  He wouldn’t get the smell out for  _weeks_  now.


End file.
